


Sins of the Fathers

by Mossyrock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: About as religious as Good Omens is, Alternate Universe - Priests, Considering they're priests, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Human AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pining, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slow Burn, So not as much as you'd expect, Trainee Priest Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossyrock/pseuds/Mossyrock
Summary: Father Aziraphale is a young priest living in the seminary and doing his best.Until a new student arrives. Crowley is his opposite in every way and seems to go out of his way to make Aziraphale's life harder.As long as they stay out of each other's way, it should be fine. But nothing is ever that simple.Slow burn, pining, forbidden love, and enemies to friends to lovers, because why have one trope when you can have them all?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 254
Kudos: 253





	1. Chapter 1

Father Aziraphale had seemingly been destined by some divine plan to become a priest.

At only a few weeks old, he’d been abandoned on the steps of a Catholic church. He was found, not crying or screaming, just lying there, gazing out at the world in wonder. No note was left with him, just a simple blue chequered blanket which had kept him warm.

The Church made all possible efforts to find his parents, but after three months and not a single clue having been found, they finally conceded that he’d been somewhat miraculously delivered to them. But this also meant the Church found themselves at a bit of an impasse. The local orphanages were all over-flowing – including the one run by the Church itself. And while the search had been ongoing, he’d been taken in by the local nunnery to be taken care of and held in safe keeping. All the nuns had immediately fallen in love with the oddly well-behaved child. They dreaded parting from the bright-eyed boy they’d named Aziraphale, after the guardian of the eastern gate of Eden.

Despite some protest and much debate amongst the older Church community, it was eventually decided that he’d be raised by the sisters, who doted on him. They dubbed him a cherub, with his big, innocent blue eyes, his chubby cheeks and his halo of unruly golden curls. Even as he aged, his hair never darkened and his eyes never lost their curious, wondering spark. He’d also never lost the softness of his figure. The nuns treated him as their own human angel and the child none of them had ever had, what with being celibate and everything.

He was a happy, precocious and seemingly unspoilt child, considering how spoilt he was by affection. He was taught to never to run through the halls or disrupt a church service. Always with a smile on his face, he obeyed and never fussed. He grew up in and around churches, singing hymns (badly, but with enthusiasm) and reciting scripture better than most priests (much to their annoyance).

Of course, he’d grown up reading all sorts of books – not just the bible. He’d become addicted to all manner of wondrous stories and daring tales since he’d read his first nursery rhymes – at an age far younger than most children could read their own names. Reading was his favourite pastime. The nuns laughed that if food was allowed in the library, he’d never leave it. Luckily, he loved food as much as books, so he surfaced periodically to eat, before secluding himself back into his reading again. He read fiction and especially preferred the classics, from all the Bronte sisters to Dickens and Dostoyevsky.

But, as a child of the Church, he also read theological and philosophical texts from such a young age, that it surprised no one when he passed his undergraduate theology degree at 19, before immediately joining the seminary next door to the convent he called his childhood home.

It was an unorthodox childhood, but he wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Sister Frances, the nun who had cared for him most of his life, had been so proud, weeping and smiling as he took his sacred vows five years later.

He’d been ordained by the age most men joined the seminary.

Aziraphale felt the calling to the Church, not just out of loyalty, but because he felt it was his purpose, to serve those who needed help, who needed a home, like he had. He’d always been an empathetic soul, sharing what little he had with those less fortunate. He hadn't felt it was any kind of sacrifice, to give his entire life to the Church – mind, body and soul. He believed in God and the Church wholeheartedly and without question. In fact, he’d felt to become anything other than a priest would’ve been a personal type of blasphemy.

He loved the idea of being able to help, guide and give Godly love to those who were struggling. Writing sermons had been something he’d always enjoyed. Bringing others closer to God was like no other feeling on Earth. There wasn’t an aspect of being a priest he didn’t love. It was his calling and his passion.

In theory.

In practice, it wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. Unlike all his classmates, he hadn’t been assigned to a congregation on his ordination. On his graduation day, he’d been pulled aside by the cold and stern Father Michael, one of the elder clergy.

“Aziraphale, His Excellency, Archbishop Gabriel has suggested, since you excel at your studies, that you remain here, at the seminary and continue them.”

It was said with a kind smile and phrased as if it were a favour to him, because researching old texts and finding ways for the old religion to exist in the new world – one with ever advancing technology and new global culture – was fascinating to him and everyone knew it.

But Aziraphale knew the truth. The Archbishop didn’t like him. He wasn’t sure why, but ever since he’d met the then-Bishop when Aziraphale'd been a child, he’d sensed Gabriel’s disapproval. He’d tried so hard to be the best student and the best priest he could, but somehow, he’d always fallen short.

When he’d asked, Sister Frances had always given a fond shake of the head, frown playing about her lips.

“You may always try to do the right thing, my darling child, but sometimes you disregard the rules to do it. The Archbishop is stuck in his ways and doesn’t understand.”

At the time, the young boy hadn’t understood what she’d meant. How could doing the right thing possibly be wrong? But as the years went on, Aziraphale saw through the inner machinations of the Church and realised that he’d never become an Archbishop, let alone a Cardinal, if he didn’t obey every letter of the unspoken rules. After all, it was your fellow clergymen that decided whether you ascended or not and as it was, Aziraphale knew he wasn’t exactly top of the list.

He was too young, too giving, too selfless, too naive. And far too stubborn to change.

But he did his best and made the best of the situation. He stayed quiet, attending to his duties around the seminary and helping those he could, when he could. He spent what free time he had volunteering – both for religious and secular charities. The older priests didn’t approve, but he persisted. Every Thursday evening, he could be found at the local secular orphanage, reading them stories, just like he did for the kids at the Catholic orphanage.

He didn’t see how that could possibly be a bad thing.

* * *

The seminary was struggling to find new students. Not many young men wanted to become priests anymore in this new modern, fast-paced world. The enrolment rate had dropped significantly in the three years since Aziraphale had been ordained. And those who made it through the seminary to priesthood were even fewer. Aziraphale watched them come and go with disinterest. He wouldn’t admit he was jealous as those who were ordained were assigned a parish and off they went. After all, envy was a sin.

But still, every year, at least a couple of new students arrived.

Father Peter, a teacher and priest who was 70 years old and near retirement, pulled Aziraphale aside one day.

“My dear child, just the priest I was looking for!” He enthusiastically greeted him.

He'd always liked Aziraphale, having been the priest to find him on the steps all those years ago. He’d been one of the priests to fight for him to stay with the nuns and had championed him when he indicated a desire to join the seminary.

He was always smiling, with pronounced laugh-lines framing his deep brown eyes. He had dedicated his life to charity and had taught Aziraphale everything he knew about compassion and love, caring for everyone equally - something Aziraphale had yet to master. 

Father Peter been the closest thing to a father figure, pardon the pun, that Aziraphale’d ever had.

“Father, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He held out his arm for the older man to grab hold of.

Peter took his elbow with shaking hands and a grateful smile. He had arthritis and didn’t get around as easily as he used to. Seeing old age change his friend and mentor hurt Aziraphale, but he plastered on a smile, not to upset him.

“I have a favour I need to ask of you.” 

“What do you need?” It wasn’t unheard of for other clergymen at the seminary to ask favours of Aziraphale. He often went to charity events, wrote sermons or took confessional in the stead of others, when they were too busy or had other commitments. It wasn’t that Aziraphale minded so much – he liked to help – but he’d much rather be doing those things for his own congregation.

Still, he did them without complaint.

But it was rare for Peter to ask anything of him. 

“A new group of students are arriving tomorrow, and I was wondering if you could possibly show them around? My old knees don’t take all these stairs the way they used to.”

“Of course, Peter. I can do that,” He agreed.

“Oh, wonderful! They’ll be arriving by ten tomorrow morning. There’s 4 of them.”

* * *

Aziraphale stood at the St Peter's gates and sighed, thinking about how he’d much rather be in the library. He wanted to kick himself for never being able to say no.

It was an unseasonably cold morning, with his breath causing a puff of condensation every time he sighed, which was more often than was polite. His cassock wasn’t exactly designed to keep him warm. Still, he stood at the gates and waited, rubbing his hands together vigorously to fight off the threatening numbness. 

_'Lord, give me strength and patience.'_ He looked at the dreary grey sky, entreatingly. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long.

The first car pulled up. It was a battered old car, more old-fashioned or ‘vintage’ than most that could be found on the bustling London roads.

A young man bounded out of the backseat before it had even come to a complete stop. He was quickly followed by a small, equally energetic black and white dog, yapping and running around his heels. The man had unruly, dirty blond hair and a wide, charismatic grin with perfect teeth. Two older people, who Aziraphale took to be his parents, exited the car in a more orderly manner.

“We’ll miss you so much, my darling.” His mother tearfully hugged him. The young man laughed and pulled away.

“No, you won’t. You always say you wish you could get some peace and quiet. Now you’ll finally get it.”

His mother sniffed and gave a weak laugh. The man’s father gave his son one of the awkward side hugs Aziraphale knew came from those who weren’t usually the hugging types.

“Be good, alright, son?” He said gruffly, with a suspicious redness around his eyes.

“I will,” He grinned. The grin had a hint of mischief about it.

Then the young man bent down to pat the dog, who immediately leapt up to lick his face.

Aziraphale winced. That wasn’t very hygienic, but he knew many pet owners didn’t mind it.

“I know, Dog. I’m going to miss you too. But mum and dad will take good care of you, ok?”

The dog gave a pitiful whine that had Aziraphale’s heart breaking. He’d always been a softie for animals, even though he’d never had a pet of his own. He fed the birds in the nearby parks though, when he could. The squirrels too, though he often got disapproving looks for it. He didn't understand why they should be classed as pests. 

Finally, the young man turned to him.

Aziraphale gave his best, most reassuring smiles – though he suspected it looked forced – and shook his hand.

“Hello. I’m Father Aziraphale. You must be one of our new students.”

“I'm Adam Young. It’s nice to meet you.”

His few mismatched belongings were unpacked from the car and with a few more tearful hugs from his mother, his parents departed.

Aziraphale wondered what he should say to the newcomer, but luckily, he was saved by another car pulling up.

It was a fairly new car and non-descript in every way. The three people who exited it were equally average. They seemed like business professionals who, if you asked their actual job, would tell you in a long winded and boring way, which you make you immediately forget again. It was probably something financial services related, like stock broker or banker.

“Hello,” The youngest of the trio greeted, overly formally.

Aziraphale was used to people greeting him formally. Too many people were intimidated by the robes and collar, as if by treating him like a normal person, they’d be instantly bound for Hell. It got old very quickly. He tried his hardest to seem approachable.

“Hello, I am Father Aziraphale, it’s lovely to meet you.” Again, he gave his stilted smile.

“Hey! I’m Adam,” The other student greeted. This made the new arrival relax a little.

“I’m Jeremy, but actually everyone just calls me Wensleydale.”

Aziraphale presumed that must be his last name, since it seemed an odd nickname otherwise. But he couldn’t ask, lest he seem rude. Rudeness was, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, almost another mortal sin.

“Youngster, we’re proud of you,” His father told him seriously, with a hearty clap on the shoulder. His mother took hold of his other shoulder and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, before glancing away, as if embarrassed by the display of familial love in public.

“Thank you, mother and father.”

His matching boring, black suitcases were unloaded, and his parents were off.

Aziraphale listened to the two students make idle chit-chat as they awaited the second half of the cohort.

A dirty old station wagon rattled to a stop in front of them. A young man, whose clothes were rumpled and dark hair unkempt, tumbled from the back. His mother materialised beside him with a handkerchief, trying to wipe something off his face, which stubbornly clung on. She sighed and gave up. Aziraphale had the feeling this was an ongoing battle she’d never won.

“Hey, I’m Adam.”

“Hello, I’m Wensleydale.”

“Hi, I’m Father Aziraphale,” He greeted, feeling that he was very quickly losing control of the situation.

“I’m Brian,” The newest student to join the group shook all their hands, before unloading his battered suitcase from the car. His mother gave him a big hug and off she went.

Time ticked on and on. The fourth student hadn’t arrived, and it was almost ten. Aziraphale wondered if someone would bother to tell him if the other pupil had quit already, but he doubted it. No one ever told him anything. He resolved to give the student five more minutes. If he hadn’t arrived by then, he could find his own way around the seminary.

As the five minutes ticked to an end, a sleek, black, vintage Bentley roared to a stop in front of the stunned group. Aziraphale heard the murmurs of appreciation from the other three men. But Aziraphale, not caring for cars at all, just rolled his eyes. How typical that a spoilt rich man would be the one to hold them all up. The rich never did seem to think about the consequences their actions might have on the lesser people around them.

He’d now lost all feeling in his fingers and was feeling a little grumpier than usual.

A young man with flaming auburn hair, almost unnaturally red, slid out of the plush leather interior of the car. He was tall, lean and lanky, with sunglasses on, despite the overcast London weather and he was dressed like a rock star in head to toe, skin-tight black. Aziraphale wondered how this man had come to be enrolled in such a prestigious seminary, when he couldn’t imagine the Archbishop, or any of the other senior priests, approving of him. He supposed that was the effect of having money.

This bizarre student held one small suitcase and nothing else. Unlike the others, no parent emerged to give words of farewell or encouragement.

The car sped off, leaving an almost comical trail of exhaust in its wake.

The wannabe rock star, who had his hands stuffed into his impossibly tight jeans, said, “Can we go inside already? I’m bloody freezing.”

Aziraphale shook off his shock and began to lead the men to their lodgings.

* * *

Aziraphale took them straight to their rooms, so they could drop off all their belongings, since lugging their luggage around the tight and twisting corridors of the seminary would’ve been next to impossible and done nothing but slow them down. He had been roped into helping Adam and Wensleydale carry some of their stuff, lest they have to make two trips. It was either help and get it over and done with or not help and have to spend longer in the cold helping the young men.

It was an easy choice. It just didn’t mean he liked it.

“This is your dormitory. These four rooms have been made up for you. Choose whichever you like,” He told them unenthusiastically.

He didn’t mention that his room was just down the hall. He hoped they wouldn’t notice. It was unusual for a permanent resident of the seminary to still be boarding with the students, but they’d never bothered to move him and, as much as he hated it, he wasn’t the type to complain. He’d brought it up occasionally, apologetically. It hadn’t worked.

The new students didn’t seem to care about his apathy though, three of them practically racing each other to secure the best room. The fourth, as yet unnamed student, just sighed and sauntered over to the last, unoccupied room. He didn’t even seem to look around it, just dropping his stuff on the bed, before he joined Aziraphale back on the landing without a word. He leaned back on the bannister and crossed his arms with a frown. Aziraphale had the feeling that he was rolling his eyes behind his glasses, which he still wore, despite being inside. It seemed exceedingly rude.

Sensing that the other three might take their time without a little prompting, Aziraphale politely but insistently cleared his throat.

“Let’s get on with the tour, shall we?” He gently ‘suggested’.

The red head beside him huffed an unimpressed laugh. It made Aziraphale dislike him a little bit more, even though the man clearly empathised. It seemed like they’d both rather be anywhere else. Aziraphale wondered where this stranger wanted to be.

* * *

Aziraphale led them to the first available classroom. He wasn’t a teacher, but he needed to make sure he crossed all the T’s and dotted all the I’s, before he took them through the seminary. He needed to set the ground rules before they went anywhere. He couldn’t have them causing a ruckus or disturbing the other priests. He didn’t need the blame for their bad behaviour. He'd rather not draw attention to himself more than necessary.

The four young men took seats at the desks, looking rather lonely in the sea of 25 desks.

He didn’t know why he thought of the men as so much younger than him, since he was only two or three years their senior at best. But somehow, he felt like he had very little in common with their happy, smiling and youthful faces.

“Well, we’ve all been introduced,” He started, ignoring the fact the fourth student hadn’t actually introduced himself, “But just to re-introduce myself, I’m Father – “

“You’re a _priest_? Aren’t you a bit young to be a priest?” The red head asked incredulously from the back of the classroom. Where the other three had congregated in the middle together, the mysterious man in black had sat himself at the back, alone.

He wanted to snap that he wasn’t just wearing the cassock and collar for a dress up party, but he bit his tongue. He knew he looked young. Add to that the fact he had graduated university early and he was used to being disrespected, mocked or outright bullied. He had always chosen to turn the other cheek, as the Sisters had taught him.

“Yes, I am,” He replied curtly. “I was ordained three years ago, at the age of 24.”

There was a noise of awe and appreciation from the other three, but the red head merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Anyway, my name is Father Aziraphale.” He wrote his name on the board. There was a scoff and a cough from the back again. Again, he knew his name was a source of amusement for some, but he chose to rise above. “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves again, shall we?”

* * *

By the time the tour was done, and the new students abandoned to their own devices, Aziraphale had a splitting headache and wanted nothing more than to curl up with a cup of tea and a good book. Unfortunately, it was not to be. He had a date to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I'm not Catholic. Any inaccuracies are lack of research and/or creative license.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a bitter rivalry.

Pepper was one of the few people Aziraphale knew outside of the Church. She was a few years older than Aziraphale and a tough black woman who took no nonsense from anyone. She looked harmless enough, but Aziraphale was fairly sure she could bench press him without breaking a sweat. Yet, despite that, she was the coordinator of a not-for-profit homeless shelter and a firm believer in equality. She was selfless and kind – as long as you didn’t cross her.

If you didn’t believe in equal rights, Pepper didn’t like you. It was as simple as that. And she wasn't shy in expressing her dislike. 

Like Aziraphale, she knew what it felt like to grow up different, as the only black girl in a white school and with a strange name. Her mother, with the help of some particularly strong ‘herbal medicines’ had named her Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. She, rather sensibly, insisted everyone call her Pepper. She’d only confessed her real name to Aziraphale after a few too many drinks. He was forever glad that his fuzzy brain hadn’t laughed, or she wouldn’t be the friend to him she was now. He was fairly certain he’d have ended up with a broken nose.

She was a breath of fresh air in his otherwise very small world. Aziraphale liked having friends from outside the Church. Pepper, not being religious, didn’t care to talk religion. Conversely, not many priests cared to discuss classic literature or music or anything that wasn’t at least somewhat Church related.

They’d met at university. He wasn’t exactly sure how they’d become friends (it was probably Anathema’s fault), with Pepper studying gender studies and social sciences – not exactly his area of expertise – but he was glad they were. He’d lived with her during their later uni years and during his brief time between graduation and joining the seminary - in the mandatory 'gap year'. Though his had been 6 months, not the full year. 

Between Pepper, Anathema and Newt, he felt like he had a good group of friends. Newt had been studying computer programming and Anathema had been studying theology with Aziraphale, but she definitely wasn’t the typical religious study student. Together, they were a bizarre, but happy bunch.

When Pepper opened the shelter, he was the first to volunteer. And he kept his promise, helping out at least two evenings a week. It kept him busy and it was nice to see the impact they were having on people’s lives. It was what he’d always wanted. He liked to sit with people and listen to their stories. Like books, people’s stories always took him on a journey. Everyone had something to say, if you were willing to listen. 

Aziraphale arrived at the shelter, knowing he looked like he’d had a bad day. Which was fair, because as far as he was concerned, he had.

Pepper greeted him with an unamused look.

“What happened to you? Someone piss in your Cornflakes?” She asked, assessing him.

“No. Worse,” He answered. At her disbelieving and questioning look, he expanded, “I had to show the new students around.”

“Oh!” She said, as if she’d made sense of his bad mood. “Oh?” She asked, still lost.

He sighed, “Every year a new group of young men come into the seminary and before you know it, they’re out at their own parishes and I’m still stuck at the seminary.” But he wasn’t bitter about it, of course.

“One, young men? You realise you’re young yourself, right mister _‘I finished university at 19’_?” She did a terrible impression of his prim and proper voice. He pursed his lips to avoid saying anything rude in reply. He tried hard to be on his best behaviour while in his cassock and collar, but sometimes the urge to swear at her was almost overwhelming. “And two, I thought you liked being at the seminary?”

Aziraphale glared at her, but she just rolled her eyes. She didn’t seem at all frightened that he might summon his priest powers and smite her down. He wondered if there was a nice middle, where people weren’t too afraid of his collar, but had a healthy respect for it. So far, he hadn’t managed to find the balance. It was disappointing. He knew his youth didn’t help either.

“I don’t mind being at the seminary. It’s got all the books I could ever need and it’s close to my family,” Pepper nodded, being aware of his unorthodox upbringing, “But I want a congregation to call home. A community I can help. _My_ community.”

“You’re helping here,” She pointed out.

He loved helping at the shelter. Pepper had even confessed, in one of her rare sentimental (and drunk) moments, that she couldn’t have done it without him. He was flattered but waved off the praise. It made him uncomfortable.

But it just wasn’t the same as having his own flock. He wanted to be a shepherd.

“I know. I like being able to help here.” And he truly did. “But it’s not fair that these men are going to be ordained, or not – since none of them seem like they’re going to make it past second semester – and get a parish before me.”

“Why do you think they aren’t going to make it?”

“Well, one of them seems more suited to politics than the pulpit, which means he’ll probably be the next Cardinal,” He said ruefully, “Then there’s the accountant. The third man seems disorganised and messy. And then there’s Crowley…” He spat the name in disgust.

“What’s wrong with Crowley?”

He wasn’t quite sure how to explain the fourth student who, like Wensleydale, preferred to be addressed by his surname. He seemed distant, aloof. The other students had instantly seemed to band together, but not him. There was something about him that had Aziraphale agitated. He hadn’t really done anything to offend him, but still, Aziraphale didn’t feel comfortable around him.

“He dresses like a rock star and acts as if he’s better than everyone else.” He finally settled on. 

“How long were you with these students?” She asked.

“About four hours, why?”

“No reason. So, he’s not your type. It’s not a big deal.” She shrugged.

He grudgingly had to agree. This Anthony Crowley seemed like the kind of man that Aziraphale would avoid in normal social situations. Which was fine. He could go on avoiding him like all the other students.

* * *

Aziraphale’d never grown out of his habit of living in the library. More hours than not, that’s where he’d be found, buried in books. The food in the seminary wasn’t as good as the food in the convent, but he still made sure to eat regularly – even slipping out to nearby cafe’s if he could manage it. Some of them had particularly scrumptious pastries.

Again, the older clergy members didn’t approve, but he wasn’t hurting anyone by eating croissants, was he?

The library of the seminary was far more populated than the one in the convent too – a fact that annoyed Aziraphale to no end. But the students had papers to write, so he couldn’t exactly complain. He’d tried taking the books from the library, but he’d strained himself more than once attempting to heft the bigger books up to his room, so he resigned himself to the noise of the library and did his best to block it out. White noise was supposed to help people concentrate, wasn’t it? He’d play music if he could, but libraries were supposed to be quiet. He’d take Handel over idle chatter any day, but unfortunately, most people disagreed.

Everyone in the seminary was used to Aziraphale and his customary spot in the library, which was the plushest corner arm chair on the second floor, across from the north facing window by the tragically small fiction section. It had a small circular table and a second, almost never used chair. It got just enough sun, and not a lot of passers-by. It was also near, but not underneath, the air conditioner. The table was enough to hold his books, notebooks and his laptop, when he was using it. The laptop cord plugged into the socket in the corner. It was the perfect spot.

The next morning, Aziraphale arrived at 10am, having had a leisurely breakfast, to find his seat was taken. He was taken aback. The new student, Crowley, was sprawled, scrolling through his phone, with not a single book within a three-foot radius.

This couldn’t be allowed to stand.

“Excuse me,” He began tersely.

The interloper looked up at him, eyebrow arched. Without his glasses, Aziraphale noticed he had lovely honey coloured eyes. But there was something wrong with the pupils. They weren’t perfectly round. They were sort of an oval shape. But Aziraphale shook off the shock of it and soldiered on.

“That’s my seat.”

“Is it, Father?” Crowley drawled. He had an attitude a mile wide and it got Aziraphale’s hackles up.

Aziraphale remembered their first introduction, where Crowley had laughed at him. Aziraphale was used to being laughed at. He was the one with the strange name. He was the abandoned, unwanted child. The young one in a room of pensioners. The old man in a young man’s body. The chubby one, with oddly bright blond hair. The religious nut. The bookworm. Always the odd one out. He stuck out in just about every room he was in.

He was used to it, but it still rubbed salt in old wounds.

“Yes, it is,” He insisted.

“It didn’t have a reserved sign or anything.”

He looked around, as if to find someone who would back him up on his claim, and to witness the sheer audacity, but no one was forthcoming.

He felt like this was an argument that could last a while, so he took a deep, calming breath, unclenching his fists and relaxing his tensed jaw.

 _‘God, give me patience.’_ He prayed.

“Can you please move?” He tried his puppy dog eyes and earnestness instead.

Crowley was still looking at him, expressionless. He tilted his head, as if thinking it over, before shaking his head.

“Sorry, I’m comfy here.” Crowley looked back at his phone, rudely dismissing him.

Sensing he wasn’t going to persuade Crowley, he grit his teeth. With a humph, he strode off to claim his second favourite seat. But it wasn’t as comfortable and unfortunately faced his favourite chair, so he was treated to the view of his new nemesis across the landing, lounging in his chair and wasting time on his phone. But he would turn the other cheek.

* * *

It became a sort of unspoken competition between them. Whoever got to the library first on any given day claimed the seat and tried to hold it as long as possible. Aziraphale’s age old quandary of having to abandon the library to eat reared its ugly head again. He wouldn’t eat around the books even if it was allowed. It could damage them, and he wouldn’t dare risk it. Some of the books were hundreds of years old. There’d be no stray crumbs on his watch. The very idea sent a shiver down his spine. 

Yet, he didn’t want to give up the seat. _His_ seat. 

But when his stomach began to rumble so loud that he started getting shushed by the other occupants – him getting shushed? He was the one who shushed! – he conceded. He hurried to the kitchens, ate as fast as he could and hurried back, secure in the knowledge that Crowley also had to eat at some point.

When he returned, a smirking Crowley was reclining in the seat like he owned it. His smug grin was infuriating.

They never spoke, but they didn’t have to. They knew what the other was thinking, every time they wordlessly battled over the chair. The thoughts were far from complimentary.

Aziraphale began to memorise the other man’s schedule, so he could get in while Crowley was in class. In that way, he had the advantage. He didn’t have classes to attend.

The chair was his and he would win, no matter what. He would wait the younger man out if he had to. After all, Crowley was a student and had to graduate at some point, right?

* * *

Unfortunately, as the first priest the other new students had met on arrival at the seminary, they’d imprinted on Aziraphale like ducklings. Adam had become their confident leader, with Brian and Wensleydale trailing after him like disciples.

They sought him out and once they'd figured out his regular library haunt, they began to find him there fairly often to ask him questions about course work or navigating themselves around the seminary. He wasn’t overly thrilled by the arrangement, but they never stayed long, since they realised quickly that he often wasn’t much fun – or at least, their type of fun.

Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it, but he was secretly flattered by the fact they seemed to like him, even if it interrupted his reading and research. And it was nice to have people his own age around every now and again. He spent his life surrounded by older priests and nuns. It was nice to see the enthusiasm of the younger generation, even if it was sometimes too much for him.

The trio sometimes also stopped to talk to Crowley, but they, like Aziraphale, didn’t seem to feel entirely comfortable around him. That seemed as much his choice as theirs.

Still, Aziraphale was happy to stay out of it. After all, the students weren’t his responsibility.

* * *

It was now several weeks into the semester and the chair battle still raged.

Aziraphale almost began to enjoy stealing the spot from under Crowley. It had become something of a game. When he won, it often earned him an amused sneer, which was more expression than usually graced Crowley’s face. It should’ve annoyed him. Instead, he found it a strange sort of prize.

If he lost, Crowley would smirk at him, self-satisfied, reminding him of why he didn’t like the man. There was just this air about him that made Aziraphale’s hair stand on end and his heart begin to race – much like a fight or flight response.

Crowley, like Aziraphale, had begun to spend most of his time in the library – when he wasn’t in class, of course. But he still barely picked up a book, and he ignored the looks of disapproval from all the other students and clergy as he continued to stay glued to his phone.

Aziraphale almost began to have a grudging respect for the disrespectful younger man, when he began turning up earlier and earlier in the morning. One day, he arrived at 7am to find a tired looking Crowley already occupying the chair. His smirk was barely there, through the haze of his visible exhaustion. The bags under his eyes looked more like bruises. Aziraphale wondered if the boy slept at all. And now he thought about it, did he eat either? He certainly was skinny.

He shrugged it off. The students weren’t his responsibility.

But when Aziraphale glanced over half an hour later, Crowley was slouched, mouth hanging open and breathing slow and even. He looked so small and fragile.

Aziraphale made sure to walk past and clear his throat at 8:15am, giving Crowley just enough time to get to his first class, if he ran.

Aziraphale settled into the still warm seat with a sigh.

* * *

Father John was one of the older, but nicer teachers in the seminary. He was handsome, even for his age, with a full head of hair, though now entirely grey, and sparkling emerald green eyes, framed by long lashes. He radiated goodness. He cared about everyone, much the same way Aziraphale did. He went out of his way to help students, giving them his time and endless patience. He was the sort of man who inspired people but would never take any credit for it.

He’d been one of the few teachers, along with Father Peter, who had encouraged and guided the young Aziraphale.

He approached Aziraphale one afternoon, as he was volunteering at one of the Church’s fundraising drives.

“Father,” He greeted Aziraphale with a smile.

“Father John, how are you?”

“I’m fine, at least, as fine as a man my age can be,” He joked.

Aziraphale gave an awkward laugh. It made John laugh harder.

“Don’t make that face, my boy. Death isn’t knocking on my door quite yet.”

He didn’t know what to say. Aziraphale tried his best to not let his social anxiety show. Judging by John’s continued laughs, it wasn’t entirely successful.

“I have a favour to ask of you,” He said, once his gruff laughter had subsided.

Aziraphale gave another weak smile. “Of course, John. What do you need?”

“You know all the new students? Peter said you did.”

“I do, yes.” He got a sinking feeling. He didn’t like where this was going. But he loved and trusted John, so it couldn’t be too bad.

“One of them is falling behind and I was wondering if you couldn’t lend a bit of a hand?”

He knew who it was going to be, of course. Still, prayed he was wrong. _‘Please, Lord, please, anyone but him.’_

“Which student?”

“Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “He just doesn’t seem to take it seriously. I worry he isn’t keeping up. He seems intelligent, he was top of his class at Cambridge, you know. You two have a lot in common, so I thought…”

Aziraphale tuned John out at that point. He would say yes, because he always did, but he didn’t know how much he could help. If Crowley didn’t want to take things seriously, Aziraphale doubted he’d be able to convince him. Crowley still hadn’t bothered to pick up more than a handful of books, despite the amount of time he spent in the library. And even then, the books he had picked up hadn’t exactly been the ones he needed to be reading. Thanks to the other 3 students coming to him for help, Aziraphale knew what they were studying. And ancient Greek philosophy wasn’t it, no matter how fascinating it was.

He almost wanted to laugh at the suggestion he and Crowley shared anything in common. Crowley wore jeans and faded t-shirts with slogans and pictures Aziraphale didn’t understand. Aziraphale wore his pressed trousers, his collared shirts and his bowties. And that was just their fashion sense. If it was indicative of them as people, Aziraphale doubted they had much in common beneath the clothes either. 

Aziraphale nodded along as John finished his spiel.

“Of course, I’ll try to help, Father. I’m not sure how successful I’ll be though,” He added as a disclaimer. He didn’t want to be blamed if (or rather when) Crowley ended up failing.

Father John just gave him another cheerful grin.

“I’m sure you’ll do the best you can.”

* * *

Luckily, he knew where to find Crowley. He still hadn’t managed to convince himself it was a good idea, but if Father John asked him to do something, he’d do what he could. It just wasn’t going to be pleasant.

He heard Raphael and Crowley before he saw them. Raphael was a third-year student, from Italy. Why he’d travelled from the Catholic motherland of Italy to this dreary London seminary, Aziraphale’d never understood. It seemed like travelling from a home in Japan to a cheap hotel in Paris to eat sushi.

Still, Aziraphale liked Raphael. He was funny, intelligent and kind. Even kinder than most priests. He was also tall and beautiful, with wavy copper hair that fell around his shoulders. He was the kind of man who would look perfectly at home in a renaissance painting, draped in white robes and gorgeous women.

And the way he spoke was so deep and melodic it could enrapture a crowd. He’d be great at giving sermons.

Aziraphale turned to walk around the library, following the arguing voices. Crowley and Raphael were standing on the lawn beside the library.

“You can’t just force the same standard of morality on everyone though. It’s more complicated than that. We, and the Pope, can’t expect everyone to worship the same way. We can’t force it on people,” Crowley was arguing.

“Sì, Antoni, I understand. But we must do as the Church says. His Holiness is God's representative on Earth. We serve him as we serve God. He decides what is best.”

Aziraphale had no idea what they were arguing about or why, but they were being extremely loud. No doubt the entire library could hear them. Which was probably why they were outside and not inside the building.

He rounded the corner and they both turned to him. Raphael was nodding and looking thoughtful. Raphael’s frown evaporated as he smiled at him, while Crowley continued to glare.

“Father Aziraphale,” Raphael greeted. The way he pronounced Aziraphale’s name had him feeling a little giddy.

“Hello, Raphael,” He nodded at him. “Is everything alright?” He’d known from the moment he’d met him that Crowley would be trouble.

“Of course, Father. We were simply having a lively discussion, right?”

“Right.” Crowley was still looking sour but didn’t argue.

“Did you need one of us?” Raphael asked, turning back to Aziraphale.

“I need to speak to Anthony.” The urge to call him ‘Antoni’ was nearly overwhelming, but he resisted.

“Ah, of course. I shall see you both later. Ciao.” With that, Raphael walked away, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone.

They stood in silence. Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak but didn’t know what to say. Where did he even start?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley causes more trouble for Aziraphale, before dropping a bombshell.

They hadn’t spoken since their first meeting, and even then, it hadn’t exactly been a proper conversation. Crowley had scoffed at him, laughed at him and since then, they’d done nothing but wordlessly fight over a chair like children. It wasn’t exactly a great way to start a friendship or mentorship or whatever he was trying to make it. 

Still, Aziraphale had agreed to help him, so help him he would. If there was one thing Aziraphale did without fail, it was keeping his promises. Even if he was now cursing himself for it. 

“What’d you need, Father?” Crowley asked, when seconds ticked by and Aziraphale hadn’t managed to think of a single thing to say. He wished he’d thought this through, before just barging in. 

“I spoke with Father John yesterday,” He began.   
Crowley continued staring at him, one eyebrow raised. Or at least, Aziraphale thought he was staring at him, since he had his sunglasses on again. It wasn’t even all that sunny out.

“He said that you were having trouble with some of the course work.” 

“He did, did he?” Crowley asked, frown still firmly in place. His tone was as dry as a desert. 

Aziraphale backpedalled.

“Well, rather that you seemed to be falling a bit behind. And he suggested that maybe I could help?” He stuttered to a stop. 

There was a perfect silence, where even the wind through the trees had frozen in place. 

“Well, you can thank Father John for his concern, but I don’t need your, or anyone else’s, help. Thanks.” He turned and stormed off. 

Aziraphale could do nothing but watch him go, afraid he’d somehow messed everything up. 

* * *

He didn’t see Crowley again for almost a week. Every time he entered the library, he expected to see him, smugly grinning, sprawled out in the chair. But instead, he found the seat empty and himself strangely disappointed. Aziraphale liked his routines and he didn’t like them being disturbed. He didn’t realise that their ridiculous chair battle had become a routine quite so quickly, but apparently it had. 

He spied Crowley walking around the seminary occasionally. He was hard to miss, with his brilliant red hair and a saunter that looked like it should be on a catwalk. 

Aziraphale figured that was one of the reasons Crowley made him so uncomfortable. All the other students were humble and chaste, as a priest should be. But there was something about Crowley that screamed of confidence and sensuality. 

It was a sort of confidence Aziraphale lacked. He knew he was a little too chubby, a little too bookish. He’d never had the confidence Crowley seemed to have. But he’d long since realised he would never have it and not to waste his time wanting something so utterly unattainable. He would just never be considered attractive. But as a priest, perhaps it was for the best. He didn't think he would give into temptation – he just didn't care for women – but it was best avoided anyway. 

But the more time passed, the more Crowley began to look withdrawn and adrift, rather than the self-assured man who’d first stormed into the school. Aziraphale could sense something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the course work either, though Father John was probably right that he’d fallen behind. 

Aziraphale wondered why or if Crowley wanted to be a priest at all. He just didn’t seem the type, and Aziraphale should know, having spent his entire life around priests. 

But the students and their wellbeing weren’t Aziraphale’s concern. He’d offered his help. What more could he do? 

* * *

Aziraphale visited the nuns when he could – after all, family was important. It was surprisingly hard to find the time, given they lived next door. His work kept him busy. Sometimes they came to visit him, if it'd been too long, interrupting his study, research or volunteering and stole him for a few hours. Sister Frances, his primary caregiver and guardian, had become Mother Superior the previous year and no one dared argue with her. If she said she was borrowing him for a nice lunch, he had no option but to follow, no matter what he’d been in the middle of doing.

She could be scary when she was determined, even if the kind smile she perpetually wore never left her face.

Just as she’d been proud of him, he’d been proud of her when she’d become Mother Superior. She was the most selfless, Godly woman on the planet. No one deserved it more. 

She visited him on a Saturday afternoon. He would usually be at the local animal shelter, but he’d been feeling a little sick, so he’d skipped it. He felt guilty, but he'd been feeling out of sorts for a few days. 

They went out for a delicious lunch, where they feasted on decadent crepes and spent the afternoon – not as a priest and nun, but something more like mother and son. Of course, she wasn’t his biological mother, but as Mother Superior and the woman who’d raised him, it was close enough. 

He’d never said it, but he thought of her as a mother anyway. 

He hoped she knew it. She usually did know things like that, because she knew him. She had a twinkle in her eye that told him that she saw how he felt. She knew he loved her and her him. 

Without their habit and cassock, they seemed to anyone watching just like any other parent and child catching up over tea and pastries.

“How are you, my angel?” She asked kindly. 

“I’m alright.”

She continued looking at him, assessing him, until he had no option to awkwardly continue. She had a way of making him feel guilty and confess his sins without a single word. She didn’t even have to try. But she also never judged, not once.

“The seminary has been quiet recently, so I’ve just been studying, as usual. I’ve been translating some of the older books to digital copies, so the stories don’t get lost if the books fall apart.” It was tedious, meticulous work, but satisfying, to know the knowledge was secure for future generations.

“That’s wonderful, my child. And Father John mentioned you’d been helping with the new students?” She gave a wide smile. She'd clearly been dying to bring it up.

The Sisters and Fathers seemed to gossip and share the goings on between themselves. They may have been righteous, but petty gossip was still a hot commodity. At this point, Aziraphale was surprised she bothered to even ask him questions, given she evidently knew all his activities anyway. She seemed to see and know all.

But it wasn’t an interrogation. She was smiling and looking proud, so he felt guilty when he had to reply, “Oh, not really. I just showed them around and answer their questions when they get lost.” 

“Ever humble, Aziraphale.” She laughed. “I’m glad you’re helping them. They’re lucky to have such a kind and intelligent mentor.” 

He couldn’t help but stop for a moment and wonder why he hadn’t been asked to help the students before now – either as a mentor or guide. He was the clear choice to show the newest students around, as the youngest priest and having lived in the seminary for years. And his knowledge was broad, given his research position. 

Besides which, unlike the teachers, he didn’t have a set schedule as such. He took confession when necessary, but otherwise his time was dedicated to reading and volunteering.

Nothing that couldn’t be rearranged or missed. 

Not that he’d ever volunteered his mentoring services before, of course, not caring much for the students. But maybe he could in future. After all, the students weren’t so bad. Except one...

The conversation moved on, and the afternoon disappeared in a blur of conversation and laughter. Spending time with Frances was like a balm for his soul and he felt the negativity of the past few days fall away. 

* * *

Once they’d eaten as much as they could, she walked him back to the library. She insisted she needed to talk to the Archbishop, so it wasn’t out of her way. 

They stopped on the library stairs. 

“Don’t wait so long again next time, my angel. I miss you.” She reached up to kiss his forehead, like she had every time they parted throughout his entire life. He wasn’t a child anymore though, so it made him blush. He’d never be taken seriously again if anyone saw. But he didn’t have the heart to ask her to stop. 

“I won’t,” He grumbled good naturedly. She liked to guilt him into visiting more. It was an effective strategy. Aziraphale was especially susceptible to feeling guilty. He supposed it was part of growing up Catholic. Some things were a cliché for a reason. 

As Aziraphale turned to enter the library, he almost ran into Crowley, who was standing in the doorway, mouth agape. His eyes were running up and down Aziraphale disbelieving, making him feel naked, despite the heavy trousers and coat and jacket he wore. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale snapped, wishing he could disappear.   
If possible, Crowley looked even further taken aback. But he shook it off quickly enough. 

“Mother Superior, really, angel?” He sneered the nickname. “Isn’t she a bit old to be a cougar?”

The implication of his words hit him and Aziraphale felt his blood heating.

Aziraphale wasn’t a violent or angry man. Most who knew him would describe him as mild-mannered. And he usually was. But when Crowley dared suggest anything untoward about Frances, he suddenly saw red. 

“How dare you?” He felt himself shaking with rage.   


Crowley held his hands up and laughed, “Alright, Father. Calm down.” 

“You will apologise. Now.” ‘ _Or God help me_ …’

“Jeez, I’m sorry. I was just joking.”

“The Reverend Mother is the most holy and pure woman. That you would say anything…” He stopped himself before he said anything he would regret. Though, he doubted he’d regret it. Crowley deserved to be put in his place. This disrespect was the final straw. “Get out of my sight, or I swear….” 

Crowley scurried away, which was very unlike his usual unhurried swagger. 

Aziraphale turned and walked away too, knowing he wouldn’t get any work done in the state he was in. He needed a cup of tea, a good book and some prayer alone in his room to calm down. 

* * *

He wasn’t proud of how he’d acted. Sure, Crowley had been incredibly rude and disrespectful, but God knew, Aziraphale hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory during the interaction either. He’d let his anger get the best of him and he’d been snappish. He shouldn’t have let himself lose control like that. At least he didn’t raise his voice or anything too drastic. 

Again, there was something about Anthony Crowley that had him feeling off kilter. He’d been oddly relieved when he’d said no to Aziraphale helping him, because he wasn’t sure how they would’ve been able to stand being in the same space for any amount of time. In the few words they’d said to each other, they’d managed to offend and upset each other at least three times. Given they’d barely said ten words to each other, Aziraphale wondered if it was some kind of record. 

But regardless of who he’d been rude to, he knew he had to apologise. It was the right thing to do – to forgive and forget. 

He slept on it and the next morning, he resolved to find Crowley and talk rationally. How hard could that be?

* * *

He found him, as usual, in the library. But instead of being slouched in the coveted seat, he was sat in the second-best seat, across the landing. When Aziraphale climbed the stairs, Crowley’s head snapped up and he looked at Aziraphale with wide eyes. 

Aziraphale approached with caution, as if he was approaching a venomous snake that had reared up and ready to strike. He sent a quick prayer that this encounter might be smoother than their others. 

“Hi Crowley,” He began. He spoke as low as he could, calming and even. 

“Father Aziraphale.” He nodded at him. 

“I was hoping to talk to you. Do you mind?” He gestured the spare chair at Crowley’s table.

“Sure.” He shrugged. 

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the seat. He winced as the light from the window hit his eyes. He looked over at his seat, with its perfect lighting and plush comfort, with longing. But he wasn’t planning on sitting with Crowley long, so he grit his teeth and dealt with it. One quick apology and he could get on with his day. And his life.

“I apologise for losing my temper with you yesterday,” He began. 

Both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at Aziraphale sceptically. 

“Father, if that was you losing your temper, you must be the calmest person ever,” Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale sighed, reining in his frustration. It would do no good to get angry again. 

“I’m sorry, alright? The Reverend Mother is a friend of mine.” That was, of course, a huge under exaggeration, but he didn’t feel like discussing his entire personal history with a man he barely knew and had never said a kind word to. 

“I know.” At Aziraphale’s shocked look, he clarified, “Raphael told me that you were raised by her and the other nuns. I didn’t know.”

Aziraphale couldn’t bear to look at him. He didn’t want to see the mocking smile Crowley was no doubt wearing. Or maybe, if he was lucky, it would be pity. Aziraphale hated the pity more than the laughter. He might not have had a ‘real’ family, but he never really felt like he missed out on anything. Except siblings, but plenty of kids were only children, so he didn’t see how he was any different. Besides, he’d never been great with kids. He visited the orphanages like clockwork but reading to the kids a few times a week was a far cry from being around them or in charge of them. He’d been asked to take Sunday school once and he’d very nearly said no – and he never said no. He’d survived relatively unscathed. 

“And I’m sorry,” Crowley continued, as if he was being forced to say the words “For being so rude to you... All the times I’ve been rude to you. I just… Never mind. Sorry, alright?”

Aziraphale was watching him with interest now. He wasn’t expecting an apology in return. In fact, it might have been the last thing he was expecting. Crowley didn’t look happy about the apology. In fact, he looked like it tasted disgusting in his mouth, but he also looked honest enough. 

“I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” It was a habit, to use the words of absolution. He slipped into them without realising. It wasn’t until he looked at the grin on Crowley’s face that he realised what he’d done. But unlike the other grins he’d seen from the other man, this one wasn’t sarcastic or sneering at all. Instead, it was amused. 

He had a nice smile, Aziraphale mused. It made dimples form on his thin face and changed his whole demeanour to something softer. But there was still a tinge of sadness about him that Aziraphale couldn’t help wondering about. 

“Thank you, Father. Does this mean I can skip confession this week?”

“If you haven’t got anything else to confess, you may.” He returned the smile. 

They sat for another few moments, enjoying the peace between them, before Crowley spoke again.

“Your offer to help, does that still stand?” 

Aziraphale was almost sure he was dreaming now. An apology and an acceptance of his offer? It seemed unlikely. But Crowley was looking at him sincerely enough, with his big, strange, honey coloured eyes. He didn’t look happy to be asking, but he was asking anyway.

Aziraphale didn’t doubt Crowley was intelligent. He had wise eyes, even if they were odd. But was he the type of smart required to be a priest? Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

Aziraphale had been glad to be rejected before. He’d been relieved. Now, he had no choice but to resign himself to the possibility of helping him again. It wasn’t ideal. He didn’t have enough time to do everything he needed to anyway. This was just one more thing to add to his schedule.

“It does, if you want it to."

“Yeah, I would. Thanks, Father.”

He tried not to let his disappointment show.

“How about we meet here tomorrow after lunch?” He’d miss the weekly orphan outing, but they were only heading out to the park. If it was a museum or art gallery, he’d be more upset. 

“Can we meet somewhere a little more private? Maybe a classroom or something?”

Crowley was blushing and looking anywhere except at him. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps he was embarrassed? After all, it seemed his reputation and image were important to him. Being seen asking someone for help was hard sometimes. 

“Of course, whatever you would prefer. Meet me here tomorrow and we can work in one of the least used classrooms.”

“Alright. See you then.” 

Crowley stood and, gathering his things, he left the library. Aziraphale watched him go. He noticed the swagger was back with a vengeance. 

Things had taken a turn Aziraphale hadn’t foreseen and he didn’t know what to expect next. 

‘ _Lord, help me_.’

* * *

He arrived at the library at 12:15 sharp, expecting to be too early. But Crowley was arriving at the same time, so instead of entering, they diverted and made a bee-line for one of the older school buildings. Aziraphale had used all the classrooms at one time or another, and he knew just the one to use for their study sessions. Up on the top floor, there was a room that looked out over a good portion of London. It was the best view in the school and Aziraphale sometimes used the room to study in when he needed a blackboard and wanted a change of scenery. 

“Here we are,” He said, ushering Crowley into the big, dusty room. In the middle of the day, London was sunny and bustling. Looking down, they could see the people hurrying to and fro, never looking up, too busy on their phones. Aziraphale noticed Crowley looking out over the city. 

“Nice view, isn’t it?” He asked.

“It’s alright,” Crowley grunted with a shrug. He took his glasses off and was looking out the window dispassionately. His eyes didn’t stay on the scenery for long, sliding right over it,almost unseeing. 

Perhaps he wasn’t much of a city person. Aziraphale found a sort of odd beauty in the jutting edges of the buildings. Humanity was so ingenious, creating newer, more impressive buildings. Of course, nothing beat the classic architecture of a well-built old building. But Aziraphale appreciated both. 

“So, what are we studying today?” Aziraphale began, taking a seat behind the old, solid wooden desk at the head of the room. Crowley was sat half way back the row of seats. 

“We’re studying the book of Exodus. We’re supposed to be doing an essay on the lives and morality in Egypt at the time.”

“Ok. And when is this essay due?” He made notes on his notebook, noticing that Crowley had yet to open a book or take out a notebook himself. If he thought Aziraphale was going to do all the work for him, he was sadly mistaken. 

“A couple days.”

Aziraphale gasped. He’d hoped they’d have at least a week to catch up on anything he’d missed so far, before beginning anything current. But since it was urgent, he could adjust his timeframe. Luckily, he knew exactly the books and texts they should focus on. He made a few quick notes of which books Crowley should borrow from the library. 

“And how much have you written so far?” He asked, still turning the topics over in his head, formulating a strategy. 

However, the gears of his mind came to a screeching halt when Crowley answered, “About 200 words.” 

Unless the essay was only 500 words long, they were going to be busy. Aziraphale hoped this was the only assignment he had outstanding, because they wouldn’t have time for anything else for the next two days solid. 

But his hopes weren’t especially high.

“How long is it supposed to be?” 

“3,000.” 

‘ _Oh dear Lord._ ’

Well that wasn’t good. Aziraphale felt a flash of anger jolt through him. How was he supposed to help this man? 

“Why haven’t you been working on it before now?” He asked, incredulous that anyone would leave something so late.

“’Cause I’ve been busy,” He replied, folding his arms and frowning. He was overly defensive. 

But busy? He spent all day – outside of classes – in the library playing on his phone. How could he possibly claim to be busy? 

“Busy doing what? Playing on your phone for hours every day?” He snapped. He had no tolerance for laziness or lies. He knew he shouldn’t, but he needed to say what he’d been feeling since Crowley had started to steal his chair out from under him, for no good reason. Why sit in the library, just to play on a phone? He had a perfectly good bedroom he could use, out of everyone’s way. 

“No.”

“Maybe if you actually picked up a book every once in a while, you wouldn’t be failing.”

It was below him, to say such a thing, but it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Well, maybe it’s because I can’t!” Crowley yelled, clearly frustrated and upset.

“What?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions, confessions and overheard conversations.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Aziraphale was completely and utterly confused. Crowley couldn’t be illiterate... Could he? That didn’t make sense. Was he just messing with him, teasing him and was about to laugh at how gullible he was? That made more sense, given Aziraphale's knowledge of the man. 

“I can’t read very well,” He mumbled. He was looking away from Aziraphale and looking incredibly uncomfortable. There was a blush on his high, pale cheekbones. 

“But you’re here. You got a degree, didn’t you? I thought –” Aziraphale was still lost.

He wouldn’t be at this seminary if he wasn’t at least somewhat smart. They only enrolled the best of the best. Or they used to anyway, before the enrolment rate dropped to next to nothing and they needed students to survive. The standards were definitely slipping. Crowley was evidence enough of that. Or was he? There were all sorts of application processes a man needed to pass to be enrolled at St Peter's and no matter how desperate they were to bring in students, they weren't so desperate as to abandon all standards. The Archbishop was a real stickler for the rules, regulations and traditions. To a wearying degree. 

“I can read,” He scoffed, as if he hadn’t just contradicted himself. “It’s not the difficulty of the vocabulary I have a problem with. It’s the size and style of the font that’s the issue.”

Aziraphale continued looking at him, awaiting some explanation.

Crowley sighed as if he had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

“I have an eye condition. It’s called coloboma. It means my pupils are a weird shape and my eyesight is terrible. It makes it hard to read or see anything in general, really,” He mumbled. He’d crossed his arms and his brow was furrowed like a newly ploughed field. He clearly hadn’t wanted to tell Aziraphale any of that. In fact, he looked like he was being tortured for each scrap of information. He seemed foolhardy and stubborn. But luckily, so was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was used to having people confide in him, both in confession and just generally in life. He'd been told he had one of those honest and open faces people seemed to trust. Even before people knew he was a priest, they were telling him their personal stories. It made him feel equal parts flattered and uncomfortable. But he always did his best to help, listening intently and gently encouraging. Because he generally liked people. He did. He loved each person on the Earth, as God did. But, humanity, as a whole, he wasn’t a massive fan of. Big groups of people only caused problems. A group was only as intelligent as its dumbest member. The one on one interaction, like confession, was what he liked best.

He just didn’t know how to deal with this particular man and this particular confession. Did he push for more or let it go?

He was too curious to not at least try to understand.

“What do you mean?” He asked again.

“My eyes have trouble with any books that have small or faded text. Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, is most religious books.”

Aziraphale knew the library had hundreds of vintage and antique books, with yellowing pages and tiny print. If what Crowley was saying was true, most of the library would be completely inaccessible to him.

Aziraphale was appalled. He couldn’t imagine being surrounded by books but unable to read them. It would be his own personal Hell. Next to the books being burned in the infernal flames, he supposed.

“Do your teachers know?” Surely Father John would’ve said something when he asked for Aziraphale’s help if he'd known. Unless it had been confessed in secret, where they were bound to silence, no matter what. Aziraphale had his own opinion on that, of course, but he was not stupid enough to say it anywhere the Archbishop might hear. He didn't need another hour long lecture. 

“Nope. Only Raphael knows, since he asked about my glasses,” He gestured to the sunglasses he’d discarded on his desk, “and wouldn’t let it go, the meddling do-gooder.” The glasses weren’t just an unnecessarily flashy fashion accessory after all. That surprised and humbled Aziraphale. He’d been at least partially wrong about Crowley all along.

“Aren’t there prescription glasses you can wear to help?”

Crowley shook his head. 

“The sunglasses help to protect against sun damage, but it’s not like long or short sightedness. No prescription’ll fix it. No surgery either.”

Aziraphale glanced at his own glasses, abandoned on top of his notebook. He didn’t always wear them, but they definitely helped with the older texts. He felt guilty he couldn’t help Crowley and give them to him or help him get some of his own. Though the thought of the tiny old-fashioned wireframe glasses on Crowley’s face seemed ridiculous. Crowley would no doubt buy expensive designer glasses – sleek and flashy, like the man himself.

“How do you study then?” Aziraphale asked.

Obviously, Crowley had done well enough in university. He remembered Father John saying he’d come top of his class and at Cambridge no less. That was no mean feat. How was that possible if he struggled to read? Unless he cheated...

“E-books and audiobooks. I bought all my textbooks in digital form. Made it easier to lug them ‘round campus too.” He gave a tiny amused smile. “My classmates used to complain non-stop about carrying heavy books all over the place. I wondered why they didn’t just download ‘em too. But I didn’t tell them that.” He gave a scoffing laugh.

Aziraphale wanted to scold him, but he let it go. Now didn't seem the time.

“What about books that weren’t online in one form or another?”

“There’s an app that can scan and digitise pages, using a phone camera, but it’s new and not very good yet. Still, it’s better than nothing. At least, if I can photograph the pages, I can zoom in and make out some of the words. I get the gist, anyway, so long as it’s not in bloody cursive.”

He shrugged again – his favourite gesture along with crossed arms and a frown, Aziraphale was noticing – as if it was an everyday occurrence to struggle to read. But Aziraphale realised that for him, it was. If he'd been born this way, he'd never seen the true beauty of God's universe. 

His attitude around his eyesight issues was defensive and dismissive, which Aziraphale supposed was understandable. He didn’t seem to use it to get sympathy or special treatment. In fact, he hid it, like some dirty secret. It obviously bothered him, making his life so much harder than a fully sighted person, but he didn’t want people to know or help, as it it made him feel vulnerable. He must have been teased for it at school.

Aziraphale could empathise.

A lightbulb came on in his mind and he felt a smile creep across his face. He saw Crowley see this and tense up. 

“I am currently in the process of scanning and documenting all our older texts, to preserve them. It’s partially why I’m always in the library,” Aziraphale told him. He was happy that at least here, he had a practical solution to offer – if Crowley would accept the help.

Aziraphale was practically bouncing with excitement. 

Crowley looked at him, eyes ever so slightly wider, interested, but still not wanting to show his hand.

“So, you’re not just attempting to read every single book ever written?” He joked.

“No, I’m not.” He flushed and gave Crowley a tentative smile. If he had eternity, he thought he might just try, but as it was, he didn't get to read for pleasure as much as he'd like. “If you let me know what you need, maybe I can scan some that could help you? While I help you here, of course.” He wasn’t sure how Crowley was going to react to yet another act of charity, but he needn’t have worried.

Crowley nodded thoughtfully and said, “Alright.” Then his countenance changed, and he scowled. “But you’d better not tell anyone about this, ok?”

“Of course not, my dear.”

Crowley scoffed again, but a tiny smile still hung about his lips.

It felt good to help. Crowley seemed to have trouble relaxing or being generally happy. Aziraphale was relieved that they were finally getting along, enough to coax a smile, no matter how slight, out of him. It felt good. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale said, giving one of his happy wiggles. “Well, let’s get stuck into this assignment, shall we?”

* * *

Their new arrangement wasn’t all smooth sailing. In fact, it was very rocky sailing, like being buffeted around the vast ocean in a leaky boat. Apparently, one civil conversation and a better understanding did not erase the weeks of previous hostility.

“How are you going with the newest assignment?” He asked during their next session.

He’d talked to Father John, who’d thanked him for his help, since apparently Crowley was performing much better in the weeks since they'd begun studying together. Aziraphale had been shocked at that. He hadn’t seen a single piece of evidence to suggest Crowley was doing anything different. He certainly didn’t feel like he’d helped. But he trusted John’s word.

John had also given Aziraphale a heads up on the upcoming assignments. Aziraphale was trying his hardest to plan ahead, scanning relevant texts and passages, but it was as if Crowley didn’t even want to be at the school. He was sullen and grumpy and complained about everything, dragging his feet and grumbling. He didn’t seem to care about his studies at all, which set Aziraphale’s anxiety off like nothing else.

But still, he tried.

“I’ve started it,” Crowley replied, still scrolling on his phone.

Aziraphale couldn’t tell him off for being on his phone, considering his condition, but he suspected he was on social media most of the time. Not that he could prove it. Every time he got too close, Crowley would switch to his assigned reading, like it was what he’d been doing the whole time. He’d look at Aziraphale with a smirk and mock innocent eyes, knowing that Aziraphale knew his tricks. He just seemed to enjoy annoying Aziraphale. And he was exceedingly good at it.

Aziraphale would just sigh. He prayed for patience every day as he said his nightly prayers.

Life was full of tests and this was just one of his. He wasn’t going to let it get the best of him. Aziraphale would still help him, until Crowley made his own choice to leave the seminary or make an effort to dedicate himself to the study, without help.

He just hoped whichever he chose, he chose it soon, for both their sakes.

* * *

A flu had made its way into the seminary. It had made its way around the clergy until even Aziraphale, who was usually unusually resistant to all types of bugs and diseases, came down with it.

He felt utterly miserable. His head was fuzzy, and he could barely breathe. He wanted nothing more than to nap the day away, but he could hardly sleep, tossing and turning and feeling sorry for himself.

But Father Peter had been even more affected by it. Already quite frail, he’d become even more so. He wasn’t a young man and his age had suddenly caught up with him, shrinking him into an old man that Aziraphale barely recognised. He'd lost that spark that he'd always had. 

Father John had gone to Aziraphale to ask him yet another favour. Peter usually took confessions on Wednesday afternoons. Each of the priests had their regular hours manning the confessional, but since he was terribly ill, John had asked if Aziraphale could take Peter’s spot for the week. As always, he agreed. While he was sick too, he was also far younger and otherwise healthier than Father Peter. He wouldn’t die just getting down the stairs and across the seminary to get to the church, but Peter just might.

Both John and Aziraphale didn’t say it, but it was clear they both knew it. The pain and fear in John’s eyes was enough to have Aziraphale more than a little concerned. John and Peter were close, he knew. In fact, they were best friends, since they’d attended seminary together around 50 years ago. They were practically joined at the hip, when they weren't teaching. Aziraphale wished he had a friend like that.

But Aziraphale tried not to worry about Peter. No one was stronger than him and no flu would get him.

Aziraphale reluctantly made his way into the confessional booth and sat. He knew that the shift was usually quiet, so he’d brought a book and small booklight with him, to help pass the time. Which was why he was shocked to have someone enter after only five minutes. He suppressed the sigh that was desperate to escape.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was 1 week ago,” The confessor began.

Looking through the holey partition and catching a flash of fiery red hair, he confirmed the identity of the person on the other side.

He hadn’t seen Crowley in over a week, since they’d both been ‘busy’. Though for Aziraphale’s part, he just wanted to spend as little time with Crowley as possible. The flu had been a good excuse. Though, he couldn't quite shake the guilt the avoidance cost. 

The more time he spent around Crowley, the more confused he became. The younger man was incredibly smart. And very funny. But he was also rude and sharp. Aziraphale just never felt comfortable around him and he felt judged, feeling Crowley’s strange, but beautiful eyes following him whenever he thought he wasn’t looking.

Before he could say anything, like recite a passage or welcome him, Crowley had begun speaking again.

“Forgive me, Father, I have sinned.”

He spoke of taking the Lord’s name in vain, being undisciplined in his religious education, feeling angry, disrespecting his elders… The list kept going. Aziraphale was shocked by the sheer number of things he had to confess, given he’d said it’d only been a week since his last confession.

“And Father, I have had impure thoughts. I have found myself distracted by physical beauty. I try not to, Father. But I can’t help it. I feel so guilty, so dirty and shameful...” The unmistakable guilt in his voice was stark compared to his other, mechanically reeled off list. 

It took Aziraphale by surprise, given they had very limited contact with women, besides the nuns (and even then, they didn’t interact too much with the students). Crowley had made the insinuation about himself and Frances, but surely, he hadn’t been serious? He wouldn’t be the first young priest to find the seclusion difficult. If the nuns were the only women available for the priests to look upon, it seemed natural they would look. But Aziraphale wasn’t one of those who was tempted. He never had been. And he hadn’t taken Crowley for one of them either. But it seemed he was wrong.

"I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life."

Crowley stopped, and was silently awaiting his penance. He didn’t seem to want or need any input from the priest at all during the confession. Usually, Aziraphale would ask questions, create a safe space and give compassion. He liked to make it a conversation.

In this case, he was comfortable skipping it.

He rasped out in his sick, gravelly voice, totally unlike his own, several prayers and things to do to repent, including being more respectful to members of the clergy, namely himself. Crowley agreed half-heartedly, before speaking the Act of Contrition like he was a teenager reciting Shakespeare – with no feeling or meaning at all. 

"Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

"For His mercy endures forever."

Crowley exited the booth, leaving Aziraphale alone again.

He sat in silence, mind racing. Crowley seemed so confident, so bullet proof or untouchable, like nothing phased him. To hear him confess he wasn’t perfect and to hear his insecurities, it had Aziraphale feeling like a fool. It wasn’t that he didn’t know Crowley was human. He did, obviously. He’d heard him confess his eye issue, hadn’t he?

But he’d always felt vulnerable around Crowley. He reminded Aziraphale of the popular group, who had teased him his entire life. To realise that he had his faults and felt the guilt and shame that Aziraphale did was like a revelation.

He felt the world beginning to tilt slightly around him, like it was knocked off its axis ever so slightly. Aziraphale had taken his oath to love all God’s creatures, to treat all people with love and compassion. For some reason, Crowley had become his exception, his blind spot. He’d let himself be blinded by his own insecurity and negative assumptions. He was ashamed of himself.

He wished Peter were there, so he could confess his own sins, but it’d just have to wait until he was better.

He opened his book but read the same paragraph at least 3 times before he sighed and closed it again.

Outside the booth he heard heavy footsteps. And two voices floated over. Archbishop Gabriel and Father Michael.

“He’s not doing well. Can’t we just expel him yet?” Father Michael said.

Aziraphale tried not to eavesdrop, in general. But it wasn’t like he could leave the booth when he still had an hour and a half left on the schedule. And if they chose to stand right outside the confessional, there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he didn’t try too hard to hear their conversation, for his own conscience. It wasn’t his fault that churches had amazing acoustics.

“Unfortunately, no. But his parents are very, very generous. It’s in our best interests to keep him around for as long as possible, no matter how useless and annoying he is.” There was a brief pause, before Gabriel added, with an audible smirk. “But we can hope he leaves on his own. That way, his parents couldn’t possibly blame us for him failing. In fact, a little gift of apology might be called for.”

Aziraphale could hear the self-satisfaction in Gabriel’s voice. It made his skin crawl. He didn’t need them to say the name of the student they were discussing. It was obvious. Aziraphale was glad Crowley had finished his confession and left. No one needed to hear themselves being talked about behind their back. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. 

“You think he’ll choose to leave on his own?”

“He’s not cut out to be a priest and he clearly has no interest in it. Perhaps we can give him some nudges in the right direction.”

Aziraphale felt the desire to confront them and defend Crowley rising, even though, until very recently, he was thinking the same uncharitable thoughts. It sent a shot of guilt through him.

“But John and Peter have paired him up with Aziraphale,” The way Michael said his name made him feel like a child who'd been caught disobeying the rules again. “You don’t worry it might help him?”

Gabriel laughed. It echoed through the church mockingly.

“Those two meddling old fools don’t know when to leave well enough alone. But it doesn’t matter. Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t be more opposed if they tried. Goody-two-shoes Aziraphale will only force him out sooner, with his know-it-all pretentiousness,” He huffed.

Aziraphale couldn’t believe his ears. He risked a peek out the door of the confessional and saw the two priests standing about 4 feet away. There was no way he could sneak out of the booth without them seeing. While the thought of the looks on their faces, knowing they were caught in their cruel gossip was a satisfying one, he knew they wouldn’t apologise. And they’d probably just make his life harder in retaliation.

So, he stayed in the booth, breathlessly waiting.

“Maybe Crowley will have the same effect on him then?”

“Let’s pray,” Gabriel replied.

They laughed as they walked away, leaving Aziraphale feeling even more lost and confused than before. Between Crowley’s confession and hearing what the Archbishop and Father Michael thought about himself and Crowley had his head spinning. He’d never had a headache come on so quickly before.

He waited until he couldn’t hear anyone before slipping out of the booth and hurrying to his room. He felt guilty about leaving the confessional unattended, but he had a lot to think – and to feel guilty – about.

* * *

Lying on his bed, his mind kept turning over and over, analysing the things he’d learnt. On one hand, he’d always known Gabriel had disliked him. To hear him say it so plainly had hurt, but it wasn’t a shock. He’d suspected if his guardian had been anyone other than Frances or his grades anything less than perfect, he’d never have been accepted into the seminary at all. He would just have to accept he’d never be in Gabriel’s favour. For someone like Aziraphale, who strived to be liked by all, it was not going to be easy, but he understood that trying to make the Archbishop like him was impossible. For whatever reason, he would just never be in his good graces. And he’d likely never know why.

And Crowley… He didn’t know how to feel about him. Since finding out about his condition he felt something approaching pity, but he knew Crowley wouldn’t appreciate that. He felt guilty, for treating the man so unfairly. They hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot, but he hadn’t done much to rectify the situation. He’d been uncharitable and he regretted it. It was not how a Godly priest should behave. But every time he tried to make an effort, somehow, they just ended up fighting again. Not that Crowley helped matters. It was like he didn’t want anyone near him, like he wanted a fight. Why was he so dead set against making friends or at least, making life easier for himself?

But no more. Aziraphale didn’t want to bicker or argue. He resolved to keep his cool and do his best not to let Crowley get under his skin, like he so clearly wanted to. He would help him study and hopefully they could come to some sort of truce.

 _‘Please, God, lend me the strength to help this man and not fight. I’m tired of fighting.’_ He added to his nightly prayers. Whether it would help or not, he wasn’t convinced, but maybe God was listening.

Contemplating this new resolve, he fell into a fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale asks the question he's been dying to since he first set eyes on this mysterious stranger - why?

No longer avoiding Crowley, he set up a study session for the next day, insisting when Crowley hesitated. The session was going well, in that neither of them had insulted the other, when he asked the question that had plagued him since he’d first laid eyes on Crowley.

“Why did you decide to become a priest?” He asked, sitting at the desk at the front of the classroom and watching Crowley carefully.

“Dunno,” He replied, not looking up from his phone.

“How can you not –“ He began, before Crowley interrupted.

“Because I just don’t, alright? Not all of us were raised into the priesthood. Can you just drop it?” He answered peevishly.

How could he be a priest if he didn’t feel the calling? Becoming a priest wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle. It was a higher purpose. But maybe Crowley wouldn’t understand that.

He shook his head and sighed, remembering his promise to himself to try his hardest to get along with this man. No more uncharitable thoughts or snarky insults. After all, everyone deserved a second chance. Although, was this Crowley's third chance? Or fourth? 

“You think it was an easy choice for me to become a priest?” He asked, curious as to what Crowley - and everyone else - thought when when they met him. 

Crowley snorted inelegantly.

“Of course. You were raised by nuns. It was inevitable.” He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I was raised by the nuns. And they told me I could be anything I wanted to be,” He huffed, crossing his arms and glaring.

“Because you’re their special _angel_ ,” Crowley teased, smirk full of sharp teeth.

“No,” He corrected, “Because they raised me to think for myself and create my own path. They didn’t choose my life for me. _I_ chose it.”

“And you want me to believe it was a hard choice? What, the Reverend Mother was upset when you said you wanted to be a priest?”

“Yes.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Sister Frances wanted me to have a full and fulfilling life. A wife, children, the whole,” Aziraphale waved a hand around vaguely, “thing.”

But he’d never felt the pull towards that ‘normal’ life. He’d thought maybe it’d come with time, but it hadn’t. He was still young. Maybe it still would. But he doubted - and feared - it. For Aziraphale, the spiritual calling was his whole life, not just because he’d been born into it, but because he felt it in his soul. He could no more ignore it than he could sprout wings and fly. But it hadn’t been as straight forward as it seemed. He’d struggled with the decision for a long time.

“Why did you become a priest then, Father?” Crowley fired the question back at him.

If he wanted honesty and openness from Crowley, he’d have to do the same. God help him. He hated sharing his story, knowing it usually meant ridicule, but he trusted in his own resilience now in a way he hadn’t as a child, when bully's words had cut like a knife. He trusted he could face the judgement with equanimity now. He didn’t like it, but he was used to it. He wouldn’t cry over it anymore.

But still, he paused, not sure how much to confide in this irritating stranger.

“Because I wanted to become a priest,” He stopped and rephrased. “No, I needed to. It’s what I was born to do. It's who I am.”

“And you want me to believe it wasn’t anything to do with being raised by the church at all? Not even a little? If you were raised in any other circumstances, you’d still be a priest?”

“You can believe what you want, my dear boy. I was the one who had to struggle with wondering if I was pursuing the priesthood because it actually was what I wanted or whether it was because it was what was expected of me.”

It had taken a lot of self-reflection and soul searching to separate his own will from what he thought was expected of him. He’d often wondered if he chose to stay in the church because it was all he’d ever known, if it was some unconscious desire to please, or if it was what he, Aziraphale, had really wanted.

But he knew now that it was his – and God's – choice and he had no regrets. He just wished people would stop assuming things about him.

“Oh no, poor angel,” Crowley pouted mockingly.

“Well, not everyone is a spoilt rich kid, who gets whatever they want like you.” He knew he shouldn’t let himself get worked up and insult Crowley, but they just couldn’t seem to be nice to each other for more than a minute at a time. So much for his resolution.

“You think that’s who I am, do you? Well, guess what? You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. So, tell me?”

“Why should I tell you anything?” Crowley was frowning like a moody teenager. It struck Aziraphale that he didn’t know how old Crowley was. He suddenly suspected he might be younger than he’d assumed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want, but as far as I can see, you don’t have many friends here. If you want to make life easier on yourself, you might consider opening up.”

“What, so you can tell everyone my secrets?”

The idea of Aziraphale being the bully was bizarre to him he couldn’t help but giggle.

Crowley’s face turned dark and stormy at that.

“You want someone to laugh at? Go laugh at the other students. Go laugh at those mindless sheep, ok?”

“I’m not going to laugh at you,” He said, trying to ignore the fact he had laughed at him only a second ago. It hadn’t really been him he'd been laughing at, but rather the situation. He didn’t know how to explain that though.

Crowley was still watching him cynically, arms crossed, and teeth clenched. He looked a second away from packing up and storming out. Aziraphale wondered why he’d even come back to their study sessions, given everything. It was one of the many things Aziraphale didn’t understand about this strange man.

He sighed and held up a feminine hand. He’d been told several times, usually by boys much bigger and stronger than him, that he had girly hands. It’d been yet another insult to add to the endless list. Crowley had nice hands, he noticed. They were slender and long, elegant even, but masculine too. Just another way Crowley and he differed – along with everything else.

“My dear boy, I’ve heard things in confession that would make even the most seasoned sex worker blush. I promise. My lips are sealed.”

Crowley’s eyes widened in disbelief as he glanced down at his lips, making Aziraphale give another delicate giggle. Another ‘girly’ trait.

“Priests can say the word sex. We just can’t do it.”

“I know,” Crowley replied defensively, “I just didn’t know if you even knew what it was.”

“I’ve led a sheltered life, I admit,” Crowley scoffed, but Aziraphale continued undeterred, “But I'm not entirely ignorant. I read.”

Crowley scoffed again at the understatement. Aziraphale didn’t blame him.

“Reading dirty books, are we, angel? I would never've guessed. Naughty, naughty,” He teased, voice lowering sensually.

At Aziraphale’s deep blush, Crowley held up his hands in placation with a gruff laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just kidding. But seriously, there are some things you can’t learn from a book. Even the dirty ones.”

Sensing an opening (pardon the pun), and ignoring the implication that Crowley had read dirty books, he asked, “Like what?”

“A million things. What delicious food tastes like, what freshly cut grass smells like, what it feels like to be in love...” He trailed off.

Remembering Crowley’s confession of lustful thoughts, Aziraphale blushed again. As attractive as Crowley objectively was, he could no doubt get anyone to notice him if he wanted to. One wink and a sway of his hips would have anyone falling over themselves. Well, maybe not anyone, but most people at least. And yet, here he was giving it up to be a priest. It didn’t make sense to Aziraphale, but if there was one thing Aziraphale knew about Crowley, it was that he was an enigma.

“Have you ever been in love?” Crowley asked.

He was looking at Aziraphale so intensely he couldn’t help but squirm. He glanced away uncomfortably before answering. He didn’t know why he was uncomfortable, just that it made his old insecurity of not being enough, of never being loved, surface again. Being abandoned as a child hadn't slowed him down, but in his weakest moments he couldn't help but wonder 'why?' Was he not good enough? 

He shook it off. 

“No, I haven’t.” He didn’t ask the question back, not sure he wanted to know. But it didn’t matter. Crowley answered anyway.

“Neither’ve I. But it’s better that way. You can’t be hurt if you don’t let anyone close, right?” He asked glibly.

That took his breath away with its sorrow. Crowley had been hurt before, that much was obvious. But he shrugged it – and everything else – off with jokes. It was a pattern Aziraphale was noticing. Was that hurt what was pushing him into the priesthood? What else was hidden inside this strange, obnoxious man? Aziraphale loved a good puzzle and at the small glimpses he’d seen into Crowley, he was intrigued. But there was something about Crowley that got his adrenaline up, like a fight or flight response every time he looked at him, warning him not to get too close.

“That may be true, but it’s a sad way to live. As priests, it’s our job to love our parish, our community, whether they love us back or not.”

“Do you love everyone, Father?” His strange eyes were watching him closely, but they didn’t seem to be judging him anymore.

“Of course,” He immediately answered.

“That’s a lie.” Crowley replied just as quickly. But it wasn’t an attack, just an observation.

And it was true. He couldn’t deny it.

“Well… It’s hard to love everyone. But I believe everyone deserves a safe space and compassion.”

“Easier said than done though, right?” He was smiling again now. A proper smile. Small, but undeniable. It changed his entire demeanour.

“Most things are, dear boy, but just because it’s hard doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”

“Touché.” He shrugged and leaned back on his chair, making it tip precariously. It had Aziraphale’s heart racing, but he didn’t say anything, just giving him a cautionary glance. Crowley ignored it.

“Everyone’s been through more than you think. Every person has struggled and deserves understanding.”

“Even you? You’ve struggled?”

“Of course,” He shrugged. “It wasn’t easy growing up an orphan. Especially one taken in by a nunnery. I didn’t have many father figures, except the actual Fathers. And I always wanted a brother or sister. I was lonely a lot.” He stopped, wondering how much more he should say, already saying more than he should. 

“I think you’re lucky,” Crowley mumbled almost inaudibly. But Aziraphale heard it and decided to push his luck.

“How so?”

“Do you know how hard it is growing up with 5 siblings? Being the youngest, always getting picked on?”

He wanted to point out that being an orphan meant that, no, he didn’t know. But Crowley was finally opening up, so he bit back the snarky reply.

“That must have been hard.” He nodded understandingly instead. He'd perfected the move in the years since becoming a priest.

“Yeah, well. It’d’ve been better if my parents actually gave a fuck about me.”

“There’s no need for that kind of language,” He admonished, shocked, yet not entirely surprised to find Crowley used profanity.

“Yes, there is. They did nothing but treat me like shit my whole life. You know what they thought about my eyes?” Crowley waited.

Aziraphale’d thought it was a rhetorical question, but when Crowley didn’t continue, he hesitantly answered, “No. What did they think?”

“They thought I was a demon. Or the Anti-Christ or something. They threatened to have me exorcised at least once a year. It didn’t help that I didn’t blindly obey them like my siblings did. They couldn’t wait to be rid of me. It was hilarious when I told them I was becoming a priest. I think they thought I meant a satanic priest or something. Or worse, Church of England.” He gave an unamused laugh.

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t imagine being treated like that by anyone, let alone a parent, who was supposed to love and protect their children unconditionally. He didn’t really have a great idea of how parents should raise their child, but he suspected treating them like a monster was far from ideal.

“I’m sorry.” He found he meant it. He’d underestimated this man, writing him off as a spoilt brat. Yet another thing he’d gotten wrong about him. He was beginning to wonder if there was anything he’d judged correctly. Why did this man blindside him? 

“I don’t need your pity, angel.” His walls had slammed back up, blocking Aziraphale out again. He suspected there was more to the story, but their truce was so tentative he didn’t dare push anymore than he already had.

They continued studying, avoiding any conversation that wasn't about the subject at hand. They’d made some real progress though. Aziraphale counted it tentatively as a win.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t had much time for the shelter, since he’d taken on all of Father Peter’s tasks, as well as tutoring Crowley. But he finally had a free Tuesday evening, so he made his way down to help with the dinner rush. Pepper greeted him like she hadn’t seen him in years. She gave him a big hug, along with a withering glare.

“I can’t run this place alone, you know,” She grumbled.

He didn’t tell her that it was a lie. She could run the world if she set her mind to it, but he just smiled and apologised.

“I won’t be away so long next time, I promise.”

They didn’t often have time for socialising, but this night was particularly quiet, so when 9 o’clock struck, they called Anathema and Newt to come and join them.

15 minutes later, the happy couple arrived. Anathema immediately hugged Aziraphale and Pepper tightly, while Newt gave them an awkward wave. They’d known each other for years, but Newt was just a socially awkward man. More so than even Aziraphale. But he was sweet. As was Anathema, who was a far more outgoing person than any other member of their group. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was due to her American heritage, or if it was just the way she was. Either way, she was the reason any of them were friends in the first place. Aziraphale was jealous of her ability to collect friends so easily. But he was grateful she'd collected him too.

“So, how’s the computer business?” Aziraphale asked Newt over a cup of tea.

Newt blushed and shrugged. He’d loved working with computers, but he was unfortunately very good at it. He tried though, which Aziraphale admired.

Anathema had studied theology, because of some family tradition. Aziraphale had never been entire sure of the details. All he knew was it was something mystical, possibly having to do with witches. At this point, he was too scared to ask

“I’m working on a new gaming software, but I’m not having much luck, I’m afraid. I managed to crash the entire system.”

“How are things with you, Zira? How are the nightmare students?” Anathema asked.

“Oh, well. They’re fine.”

“Even the evil Crowley?” Pepper piped up. He’d been texting her about his increasing frustrations with the younger man. But now, since their heart to heart, he felt a twinge of guilt at hearing him be called ‘evil’. He still couldn’t believe his parents had said something like that. It was appalling. He almost had half a mind to call them and admonish them, but he knew better. Crowley didn't need him to come to his defense. 

“He’s not _that_ bad…” He hedged. He couldn’t let them know what he’d told him, since he was in a position of trust and it had been heavily implied that whatever was said would stay between the two of them. He took that seriously. 

“You’ve changed your tune,” Pepper laughed.

“Who’s Crowley?” Newt asked.

“One of the new students. He’s a real pain in the arse, apparently,” Pepper answered for him.

Newt nodded with an, “Ah.”

“He’s actually not that bad. I mean, he has been a pain. He’s keeping me on my toes, I can assure you, but...” He trailed off. The others were looking at him with strange expressions. There was a raised eyebrow. A smirk. And cocked head. “What?” He asked.

“Nothing. That’s just not how you were talking about him a week ago.”

“Well, things change, you know. Everyone deserves a second chance.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so he quickly changed the subject to their holiday plans. 

It was good to see his friends again.

* * *

Father Peter wasn’t getting better. Day by day, Father John became more and more anxious. Aziraphale was still covering his duties and enjoying it. It was the closest he’d come to being an actual priest in years.

But he also hated it came at the expense of one of his favourite people’s health.

He went to see Peter, in the hospital. He looked so frail, hooked up to machines, that beeped and whirred. Aziraphale hadn’t had much exposure to hospitals and their machines, outside of TV shows, but he knew that it didn’t look good.

Peter lay there sleeping, pale, bags under his eyes shades of yellow and purple Aziraphale had never seen before. He looked so thin, he looked to be almost made of the many blankets that covered him. Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on the closest thing he’d had to a father’s face and he noticed for the first time how old he had become. Even a month ago, he had seemed so alive, so happy. Now, his life was draining out of him with every rasping breath.

Father John sat at his side, holding his hand, with his head down, looking tired. Aziraphale didn’t want to interrupt his prayer, but when he entered the room, John’s head shot up, revealing bloodshot eyes. Like Peter, he seemed to have aged immeasurably over night. Aziraphale wondered if he was sleeping at all.

“Aziraphale, my boy. Come in and join us.”

Father Peter hadn’t stirred, but when John stood to offer the single plastic chair, he groaned.

“Peter,” John whispered, “Aziraphale’s come to see you. Peter, wake up.” He gently touched the other man’s shoulder, before tenderly smoothing the hair on his head.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open and landed on both John and Aziraphale with a weak smile.

“Ah. My two favourite men,” He wheezed, before coughing violently.

John’s hand flew to Aziraphale’s and held on tight. Too tight. But his eyes never left Peter, as if looking away would make him disappear.

“Father, how are you?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s just Peter, my darling child. You know that.” His voice was so weak and gravelly, so unlike his usual smooth tenor. If Aziraphale hadn’t known him all his life, he might not have recognised him.

“Peter, how are you feeling?”

“As well as can be expected. But the end is nigh.”

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. Was this what it felt like to find out a parent was dying? Suddenly his world made no sense. He couldn’t think, and all he could feel was pain. His freak out was interrupted by John’s soothing voice.

“Don’t say that. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.” He was trying to sound hopeful. But the waver in his voice was undeniable.

Peter didn’t reply, just closed his eyes with a sigh.

Aziraphale sat with John, who’d procured a second uncomfortable chair from somewhere. They didn’t speak, each lost in thought and prayer.

_‘Please, God, keep him safe. Heal him. He is the best of men, and we – I – can’t lose him. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’_

Peter slept, oblivious to Aziraphale's turmoil.

Aziraphale didn’t stay long, needing to get out of the stuffy little room that smelled of alcohol and despair. He walked back to the seminary in a daze.

* * *

Things with Crowley had improved significantly. They still weren’t exactly friends, but most of the tension that had underscored their interactions had dissipated to the point they could be civil. It certainly made his life easier.

After their next session, they found themselves discussing the ancient Greek philosophers, debating the relative merits of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and Alexander the Great. As suspected, Crowley was knowledgeable and funny, making jokes only philosophy enthusiasts would understand. Aziraphale found himself having fun, something that even a week ago had seemed impossible.

He would almost call it… Nice.

“When are we meeting next?” He asked, as they exited the classroom, stomach still aching from laughing together.

“It’s the end of the term next week. I guess not until classes start again.”

That nearly halted him in his tracks. He’d become so used to their study sessions that the idea of ceasing had taken him by surprise.

“Oh. Do you have any plans for the break?”

“No. I’m just gonna be ‘round the seminary.”

The reminder of his not-so-ideal home life slapped Aziraphale in the face. In all his time in the seminary, the only other student who hadn’t headed home for the break was himself. He knew how it felt. Lonely. 

“Well, we can study in the break if you want? I can ask Father John what’s on the curriculum next term and we can get a head start?”

Crowley snorted and gave him an incredulous look.

“Ok. I get it. It was a silly suggestion,” He conceded.

“No one studies unless they have to,” Crowley laughed. At the whatever look Aziraphale had on his face, he backpedalled, “Except you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get ahead.”

“I see why you graduated so early. You’re a big, fat, nerd.”

They were all insults he’d heard a lot. He knew Crowley didn’t mean them the same way the boys at school had meant them, but he couldn’t help the instinctive shame and anger he felt flash through him. He pushed it aside.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Oh shit. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” Crowley stopped dead in the middle of the corridor.

Aziraphale just shrugged.

“It’s ok. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” _And it's not the first time you've offended me._

“Yeah, but still…” He trailed off, looking at his feet as they walked.

“It’s true though. I’m overweight and a book worm. I’m soft.” He could still hear the voices of the children laughing at him, teasing him and sending him home in tears.

Crowley didn’t reply, but there was clearly something on the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale shrugged it off.

“The seminary can be quiet when everyone’s gone. Try to go out and have some fun, alright?”

He walked away, not glancing back or waiting for a reply. He felt Crowley's eyes following him and the words he couldn’t say echoing through the halls.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas. But it's not merry.

Father Peter was finally getting better. Or so Aziraphale was told. He hadn’t gone back to visit him and every second he didn’t made him feel more guilty. He lied to himself, that he was still too sick and going to the hospital would just make Peter or one of the other patients sicker. But he knew he was feeling better and he always was a lousy liar.

He loved Peter like a father and he was abandoning him. It felt so wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go see him. He did. But the memory of him lying there, so frail and small had lingered behind his eyes. He couldn’t forget the image, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to bear it again.

He passed John every day at the seminary, and asked after him, promising the man who was like his second father that he’d visit Peter again, when he wasn’t busy. And he was busy. That wasn’t a lie. But he could've made time. He should’ve made time. There was nothing more important. 

He hated himself for his weakness. Worse than that, he knew he owed him. Frances wasn’t comfortable with blood. Which meant, when Aziraphale had scraped his knee almost to the bone falling off the swing and when he’d had his appendix out, it’d been Peter who’d been at his hospital bedside, tending to him, soothing him as he’d cried.

And now, Peter needed him, and he was too scared to be there. He was a coward, but he just couldn’t make himself visit. So, he asked John, who walked around looking like a zombie, with sallow skin and his usually jolly green eyes dulled.

Aziraphale worried that John was going to get sick too and he couldn’t bear the idea of losing them both. The very idea of it shot an icy thrill of terror down his spine.

But he wasn’t going to lose either of them. He wasn’t. He couldn't. 

He made himself a pledge – if Peter was still in the hospital in a week, the week of Christmas, he’d visit him and bring him some flowers, since he knew that daffodils were his favourite. They always cheered him up.

* * *

Aziraphale saw Crowley around the seminary every day during the break. It wasn’t hard to spot him even in a crowd, but when 95% of the seminary had gone their separate ways for the holidays, it was especially easy. Most of the time it was just the two of them, passing in the corridors, or eating in the cafeteria.

They didn’t speak much, but unlike the first few weeks, it wasn’t because they were fighting. It was because they liked the silence. They didn’t need to say anything, other than the occasional ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’. It was nice to know they weren’t alone, but they didn’t bother each other.

It could almost be termed companionable.

Aziraphale’s favourite part of being one of the few left for the holidays, was he had the entire library to himself. He could put on some classical music and sit back with a good book or two. He didn't need to study or work, so he used it as an excuse to catch up on all the fiction he usually didn't have time for. 

Until one day, a random Tuesday morning, Crowley was in the library. Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting it, since he'd avoided it like the plague so far during the holidays.

Crowley had taken what was now his seat, the one across the landing from Aziraphale’s, and was once again scrolling on his phone.

“I’m not studying, I swear!” He joked as Aziraphale entered. “I’m just getting sick to death of sitting in my bedroom and staring at the same four walls for 20 hours a day.”

Aziraphale frowned at the implication that he wasn’t sleeping enough but didn’t chide him for it. It wasn’t his business.

“Of course,” He indulged him, taking his own seat and starting up his Beethoven.

“Beethoven, huh? Why am I not surprised?” He rolled his eyes.

Aziraphale was surprised and impressed Crowley even knew enough Beethoven to recognise the song, since it wasn't one of the better known symphonies. Yet another strange piece to add to his puzzle.

“If it bothers you, I can turn it down,” He offered half-heartedly, hoping against hope he wouldn't say yes. Just because there was another person in the library didn’t mean he wanted to forgo his music. He didn’t have the chance to study or read with music very often and savoured every second.

“Not at all, angel,” The nickname had become less mocking, now something more like an inside joke, “I just wonder if you have anything more contemporary.”

“I listen to contemporary. I have Sinatra and Glenn Miller and –“

“I meant, something from the last 5 decades maybe? The Velvet Underground? The Cure? Queen? Elvis? Not even the Beatles?”

He shook his head for each.

“I don’t listen to bebop.”

Crowley spluttered unintelligently.

Aziraphale gave a little giggle. He may be old fashioned, but he wasn’t a complete luddite. He might be a few smart phone models behind, but he had one. He just didn’t use it much.

“Of course, I have The Beatles. And the Rolling Stones too, if you can believe it.”

“You’re secretly a massive troll, aren’t you?” Crowley was smiling wider than Aziraphale had ever seen before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He sniffed haughtily, but he couldn’t quite fight the grin. He wasn’t sure where this spark of mischief had come from, but he was having fun.

“Does the Mother Superior know you’re a troll?”

“Where do you think I got it from?”

Crowley didn’t reply, but he sat smiling at him for a moment longer, slightly shaking his head. He gave one final laugh and turned back to his phone.

They sat for several hours in the silence, broken by the melodies of the classical composers, before they broke for lunch. They walked side by side to the cafeteria, where they sat opposite each other, never exchanging a word. Their feet knocked together under the table, starting another battle for territory.

They only stopped when Father Michael entered and shot them a glare. Aziraphale looked away guiltily. He hadn’t told Crowley what he’d overheard in confession. He didn’t think it would exactly help the situation.

Crowley noticed his tension and pulled his impossibly legs away, leaving Aziraphale feeling even guiltier. But it was for the best, he reminded himself. Crowley wasn't his responsibility.

Besides, Crowley didn’t seem to care about him much. Then again, he didn’t seem to care about anything much.

They parted ways after lunch with stilted goodbyes.

He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. It was like every time they got closer, something happened to drive them apart again. But he wasn’t trying to be friends with Crowley, so did it really matter? They just needed to get along.

And so far, they were doing alright, weren’t they?

* * *

He’d bought daffodils for Peter from a very expensive florist on the way to the hospital. He knew that Peter would be being discharged the next day, but he’d only just worked up the courage to visit him again. He’d make his excuses and feel extremely guilty, but he knew that Peter would never hold it against him. Forgiveness wasn’t just a part of the job for Peter, it was his entire outlook on life. He was generous and kind to a fault.

He met Father John, who was on his way out. He looked worse than Aziraphale had ever seen him. Considering how he’d looked the last two weeks, that was saying something. He looked dazed. So much that he didn’t even notice Aziraphale as they passed.

“Father?” When he got no response, he tried again. “Father John?”

John turned to him, eyes taking a moment to focus on his face.

“Aziraphale,” He rasped.

“Are you ok?”

“You just missed him,” He said, instead of answering.

“I thought he was being discharged tomorrow, not today?”

“No, I mean,” He gave one dry, heaving sob, “You missed him. He’s gone.”

Aziraphale’s mind moved slowly, trying to process. The world was spinning slowly as if wading through water. It sped up again when he suddenly had two arms full of John, who was now openly sobbing.

His mind focussed on the daffodils, which were squashed between their bodies. He could smell them. They smelled fresh. He worried how they’d look when John pulled away. He couldn’t give ruined flowers to his father.

But he wouldn’t be giving them to him at all. He was gone. Aziraphale thought the words, but they didn’t mean anything. Nothing made sense in that moment.

He didn’t remember getting himself and John back to the seminary, but somehow, they ended up back there. It could've been ten minutes or two hours later. Time didn't make sense anymore. 

He walked John to his room, which was next to Peter’s. They both stood outside, holding hands and looking at the door. They knew Peter wasn’t in there, but they were both lost in thoughts, that slipped through their fingers like sand and Aziraphale couldn't remember later no matter how hard he tried. 

“Thank you, Aziraphale, my darling child,” John eventually broke the silence, “I’m sure he’d have loved them.” He took the daffodils and took them with him, as he slowly entered his own room, and closed the door, leaving Aziraphale feeling more alone than he’d ever felt before.

It couldn’t be true.

_Please, God. Tell me it isn't true._

* * *

Aziraphale spent the next few days alone in his room, hardly emerging to eat and only at odd times, when there’d be no one else around. But it was the week of Christmas, so like it or not, he had to get up and attend mass. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t miss it.

It was always a grand affair. Archbishop Gabriel ran a large event, giving long winded sermons and packing every hymn and carol into the midnight mass he could, until the entire congregation was asleep on their feet.

But unless he wanted to be told off by Frances, Gabriel, Michael, John and… Well, unless he wanted to be yelled at, he’d be there. He hated to disappoint anyone.

He entered late, hoping to sneak through the crowd. Unfortunately, two seconds into his stealthy entrance, he made direct eye contact with Crowley, who looked tall and elegant in his new cassock. Aziraphale had never seen him in a cassock before, since they didn’t wear them around the seminary, unless they were performing some official duty or other. Most students didn’t wear them at all in their first year.

He looked good. It looked right. 

Crowley opened his mouth, as if to mouth something to him over the din of the throng, but Aziraphale turned away, bowed his head and hurried to the front. John stood at the end of one of the pews and moved over to let Aziraphale squeeze in next to him. Their hands found each other again, giving a quick understanding and strengthening grip, before they both reached for their bibles and hymn books.

He saw Frances looking at him but avoided her eyes. He couldn’t deal with either her pity or her admonishment. He knew he looked a mess, blond curls sticking up every which way – even more than usual – but it was the best he could do.

They lost themselves in the service. Church had always been his safe space, away from the bullies and away from the judgement. Singing the hymns had always felt like speaking directly to God. It made his soul feel light and joyful.

Aziraphale felt at peace for the first time since he’d heard the news. Until Gabriel began to speak.

“Tonight, we are also in mourning. One of our longest serving priests has sadly passed away. Father Peter was a student at the seminary here, along with his close friend Father John,” Gabriel pointed to John, who flinched. All eyes turned towards them, assessing and pitying.

“Peter was a teacher here for many years, since leaving his parish…” The Archbishop rambled on, giving a poor excuse for a eulogy. Aziraphale tried not to cry, tried not to let it affect him, but he wanted to leave. He hadn’t come to the church for this. He’d come to escape. He’d come, to see Peter alive and well, like it had all been a nightmare. But it was not to be.

Beside him, John was shaking, barely keeping his own composure.

Thankfully, after what seemed an hour, Gabriel moved on with the service. 

Aziraphale took a deep, gasping breath. His mind rebooted and he closed his eyes, gathering himself. Peter hadn’t liked Gabriel anymore than Aziraphale. He hadn’t ever understood why, and no one would ever explain. He'd assumed he was too young to understand the politics of the Church. Yet he'd always wondered if it wasn’t more than that, since the adults had looked especially cagey every time it was so much as hinted at.

He supposed he'd never know now.

He performed the rest of the service on autopilot, kneeling and standing with the tide around him. Usually Christmas was a time to connect. But he felt so very disconnected. The only person who shared his grief was the man beside him.

* * *

Aziraphale always spent Christmas day with the nuns. They were his family, for all intents and purposes. But he didn’t want to go and bring the mood down. Still, tradition was tradition and he couldn’t disappoint them.

Frances met him at the gate with a big hug and didn’t say a word, just holding him. He tried very hard to hold back the flood of tears that threatened to be unleashed at her simple action and familiar comfort. Just as he was about to lose the fight, Sister Michael interrupted.

Sister Michael had joined the order just as Aziraphale had turned 15 and she had been a good friend to him, almost like a sister. She’d been a young nun, trying her best, but she had a streak of mischief a mile wide. She was the Maria Vonn Trapp of the convent, with more than one senior nun asking in exasperation, ‘how do you solve a problem like Michael?’. The two of them had caused Frances no end of trouble.

Michael had also on occasion snuck into the seminary and caused trouble there too. Archbishop Gabriel and Father Michael had caught her more than once, sneaking around the grounds, playing pranks on the young priests. More than one of whom had formed a crush on her – with her dark eyes, dark hair and ever-present mischievous smile. But she was somehow completely immune to them – even, to Aziraphale's surprise, Raphael.

Michael gave him a silly grin, poking her tongue out at him and doing a strange dance. It was all he needed to pull himself together. He suppressed his giggles, hoping Frances would assume it was a sob.

“Sister Michael, if the wind changes, your face will stay that way,” Frances sighed, not even looking at her. She always knew when they were up to no good.

“Me? I’m not doing anything.” She winked at him.

“Sister Michael, if you don’t stop being silly, I’ll send you to your room with no supper.”

That sobered them both up. Food was a huge motivating factor for them both, especially a Christmas roast.

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” They chorused. It almost set them laughing again, but they remembered the delicious meal at stake and managed to contain themselves.

They trailed into the dining hall after Frances. The room was filled with smiling nuns, who were sharing crackers and laughing at the pathetic jokes. He recognised them all. Most were old friends. They all greeted him with smiles and cheery hellos. He did his best to return them, but he could see in their eyes that they knew. Of course, they knew. How could they not? His entire life was under scrutiny from the priests and the nuns. He knew it (mostly) came from a place of love, but he still would rather not be watched and have things expected of him all the time. It was tiring.

He just wanted to go back to his room and wallow in his grief for a while longer. But it wasn’t his decision to make. So, he sat, and he broke bread with the nuns, praying with them for a peaceful world and a brighter future.

It didn’t feel very bright though.

“How are the studies? Mother Superior said you were digitising books. Is that interesting? Don’t you find it boring? Do you get to read them while you do it? How many have you read?” Sister Mary asked, in a passable imitation for a quickfire quiz show host. Sister Mary talked a lot and Aziraphale had the misfortune of being seated beside her for the meal.

Michael sat opposite and laughed at him every time Mary attempted yet another line of inquiry.

“My studies are going well,” He answered, trying in vain to remember her other questions. But he needn’t have worried, as she interrupted again.

“Oh, that’s good. And are you teaching yet?”

“No, I –“

“Do you want to?”

“Not really –“

“Why not?”

“I don’t really enjoy –“

“I’d love to teach,” She sighed wistfully.

He figured that was rhetorical and took the opportunity to stuff another bite of roast beef into his mouth while he could. Luckily, Sister Mary turned to her other seat neighbour and begun the next one-sided conversation. Michael kicked him under the table, and he shot her a glare. They got another warning look from Frances, but it was fondly exasperated, so they didn’t feel too bad.

Once they had sufficiently stuffed themselves, it was time for the other traditions. The nuns didn’t give big, material gifts, having given up their wealth to become nuns. But they shared handmade gifts amongst themselves. Scarves and mittens, jams and preserves, dolls and dresses… And they gifted him socks, books and a new bowtie. They knew him and his preferences well. He always felt uncomfortable when out of the collar, so more often than not, he could be found wearing a bowtie. It was something he’d been mocked for, by many people, but it was one of the few insults he shrugged off completely. His choice in clothes was his and his alone. Whatever anyone else thought about it was their problem.

The nuns had lovingly made him a neutral coloured tartan bowtie, all whites and beige, with splashes of colour – blues and reds. He wondered if maybe somewhere in his family history he was partially Scottish. But he supposed he’d never find out, unless he did one of those DNA kits, and he didn’t plan on it. He didn’t plan on finding his long-lost relatives through some website or other. His family had abandoned him, so why should he want to find them? Besides, his family was here, with the nuns.

While others were still opening and excitedly showing off their gifts, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Expecting it to be Michael, he was surprised when he turned to find Frances wearing a sly little smile.

“Come with me, my little angel,” She whispered, beckoning him away from everyone else.

He followed, confused and intrigued. Michael met his eye as he glanced back, but she didn’t follow, just gave him a reassuring nod and a smile.

They reached the library – his happy place – and they sat, at what used to be his table. He looked around, remembering all the good times he’d had here. He still came back when he could, since this library had texts the seminary library didn’t, but the visits became rarer as he focussed on digitising the library.

Besides, he wasn't supposed to be in the convent anymore than Michael was supposed to be in the seminary. He got away with it purely because it had been his home. Though he knew Gabriel and the other elders weren't exactly happy about it. 

“Do you remember Sister Agnes?” She asked, interrupting the perfect silence of the empty library.

He cast his mind back, searching for any hint of recognition. He found none.

“No?”

“She was an older nun. She was a stubborn old biddy,” She smiled fondly, “And she fought so hard against keeping you here. Almost won, too.”

He nodded along, still lost, but wanting to listen. Her voice was soothing and somehow didn’t ruin the peace of the library. Rather, her voice fit the stillness, blending with the calm and soothing him. Like she always had whenever he was upset.

“She and Gabe were dead-set against having you here. But they were, thank the Lord, overruled.”

It sent him reeling, hearing someone refer to the Archbishop as ‘Gabe’.

“But she soon fell in love with you and you with her. She became the one who rocked you in the middle of the night, fed you sweets and brought you here, to read. She spent so many hours, reading to you, teaching you. I always wondered if it’s because of her you still love your food and books.”

“What happened to her?”

“She passed away when you were almost 4. You said for at least a year after, how much you missed her and wanted to go to Heaven, to be with her. I worried you’d never love me the way you’d loved her.” Tears shone in her kind, wise eyes. 

He wanted to reassure her, but he knew she knew how much he loved her. He couldn't have asked for a better carer.

It shocked him he’d never remembered any of this, couldn't remember someone who had apparently been so dear to him. How could he have loved someone and completely forgotten them? Would he forget Peter? How could he forget him when he didn’t even believe he was gone?

_‘Please God, don’t let me forget him.’_

As always, Frances seemed to read his mind.

“Peter taught you and loved you for far longer than Agnes did. You don’t remember Agnes, not because you didn’t love her, but because you were too young. It’s not your fault,” She said, appeasing his usual anxiety and guilt. She knew him far too well. “Peter will always be a part of your life and your soul, just as Agnes, with her books and lollies, even if you don’t realise it.”

He sat, feeling a mixture of emotions. Most, he couldn’t name. There were new emotions and blended emotions, swirling and mixing, creating an overwhelming sensation. He felt like crying and smiling simultaneously. Instead, he stood and hugged the woman he’d loved as a mother for most of his life tightly, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. He pulled back after a long moment. 

“Would you like to see pictures of you and Agnes?”

He nodded vigorously, letting out a sigh, and with it, a lot of his stress. It would be alright.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is over, the new year has arrived. And with it comes new challenges.

Christmas lunch hadn’t been as bad as Aziraphale had feared. All the nuns had known and loved Peter like a brother, so instead of pity, he’d felt a shared grief. It was nice to know he wasn’t alone. The nuns were filled with compassion and love. It was a much more friendly place than the seminary, where the politics sometimes got the best of the younger priests. It didn’t happen often, and not recently, but it did happen occasionally.

He was smiling for the first time in a week as he wandered back to his room, playing with his new bowtie. It was rather nifty.

He stopped at his dorm door, about to fish in his pocket for his keys (the fact they needed keys in a locked building on the seminary grounds had always depressed him), when he stopped. There was an envelope sticking out from under the door.

He’d never received a Christmas card from anyone else in the seminary before. He bent to grab it and heard the click of one of the other ancient doors down the hall. He flipped it over. It was a little heavy for a simple card. In messy, all capitals, his name, a comma, and his nickname were scrawled on the front. He smiled. He knew who it was from, of course.

He opened it to find a hideous Christmas card. It was the traditional religious type, featuring a fat, blond, blue-eyed cherub, sitting in front of a hearth.

Opening it, he found the same writing, saying ‘THANK YOU, ANGEL’ and “I DIDN’T KNOW WHICH BOOKS YOU OWNED ALREADY, SO I GOT YOU THIS”, but it was unsigned. Taped inside was a 12-month subscription to Audible. He shook his head and laughed.

He quietly sighed, “Oh, Crowley. Thank you” down the hallway, hoping his secret gift giver heard. He knew Crowley wouldn’t appreciate him ever mentioning it, especially the thank you, so this would have to do. He closed the door behind himself with a smile.

Christmas hadn’t been bad at all, actually.

* * *

Aziraphale had a ritual of spending New Year’s Eve at the homeless shelter. Pepper always tried to make it a festive, welcoming occasion. The shelter didn't celebrate Christmas – since Pepper personally didn’t believe in it and the shelter was for all and no denominations. But New Year’s wasn’t really a religious celebration. So, they always cooked a big meal and toasted to a better, brighter new year together. Hopefully those in the shelter weren’t there to celebrate next year, having found jobs and homes and family. Sometimes they did come back, as volunteers. It always warmed him to see it. 

Of course, Aziraphale didn't exactly feel like celebrating this year. Christmas had helped him to come to terms with everything, and he was doing relatively OK, but celebrating seemed a step too far. And he definitely didn’t feel like the new year was going to solve all his problems. No resolution was going to bring Peter back. Father Time was mocking him. Time would never stop, just always marching ceaselessly forwards All he really wanted was a few days to himself. But the holiday period was the busiest time of year and he could no more let Pepper down than he could Frances. 

He hauled himself down to the shelter and painted on the happiest smile he could. The second Pepper saw him, she encircled him in her arms. Anathema and Newt appeared over Pepper’s shoulders after a moment. They wore matching looks of sympathy, but thankfully, it wasn’t pity. They were there for him if he needed, but they wouldn’t push him to talk if he didn’t want to. It was comforting, and just what he needed. Again, he swallowed back the tears. He wasn’t weak. He wouldn’t cry.

He wasn’t as cheerful as usual, and he knew the bags under his eyes were too dark and heavy to hide, but he made it through without comment from any of the shelter residents, so he classed it as a win. As the clock struck midnight, he toasted with Pepper as Anathema and Newt shared a loving kiss. He smiled to see it. They made an odd, but strangely compatible couple. He almost felt a twinge of envy, but it disappeared as fast as it had come, so much he almost doubted he’d ever felt it at all. Romantic love had never been for him. 

Speaking of odd couples, two of the other, older volunteers, Mr Shadwell (who as far as anyone knew didn’t have a first name) and Tracy, had begun to get along a little better recently, after what could only be described as a ‘rough start’. And that was being charitable. It still didn’t prepare Aziraphale to see them sharing a chaste peck at the strike of twelve. But it was nice to see older people find happiness in their retirement. Aziraphale hoped he could only be so lucky in his retirement.

Inevitably, his thoughts turned back to Peter. He was supposed to retire soon. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what his plans had been, but every time he thought of them, he smiled a broad, unrestrained smile. He told Aziraphale, “We’ll invite you to visit us, when we go,” so he’d assumed it involved travel. Though exactly who the ‘we’ was, he didn’t know. Peter hadn’t had any family, outside the Church community. He assumed he'd meant John, since he often shared a fond look during these conversations. 

Just another thing he’d never get to ask him. Why hadn’t he talked to him about anything? There were so many things he never know now. He was kicking himself.

He poured himself another generous glass of wine. 

* * *

By the time he returned to the seminary, it was three in the morning and he was a little more than tipsy. He stumbled his way back to his room, carefully navigating the ancient, uneven stairs. He’d climbed them thousands of times, but for some reason, they were giving him particular grief this time. He stumbled but caught himself and chuckled. Unlike usual, he didn’t suppress it. So what if he had a feminine laugh? There was nothing wrong with that, no matter what his bullies said.

“Are you alright, angel?” Came a voice from above. On the landing, backlit (which made his red hair look like wild flames) and looking at him curiously was Crowley. 

Aziraphale was glad to see the younger man. He’d come into his life, whether he’d liked it or not, and made it significantly more interesting. Not always more positive, but definitely less boring.

“Perfectly, yes. Uh, tip-top. Tickety boo.”

“Tickety boo?” Crowley's eyebrows were raised comically high, prompting a little giggle from the drunken priest.

“It means I’m fine, all good, not at all depressed or sad or anything.”

“I know what it means,” Crowley scoffed, “It’s just such a weird old-fashioned thing to say. But this is you we’re talking about…” He rolled his eyes. 

Aziraphale was still trying to struggle up the stairs, laughing as he swayed back and forth, making no progress. Crowley began to laugh quietly too as he watched, arms crossed and shaking his head. Aziraphale’d never heard him laugh before. It was nice, deep and rich.

“Are you drunk?”

“No!” Aziraphale replied, trying to inject as much outrage as he could at the mere suggestion. Aziraphale didn’t get drunk. Not even that one time with Michael and the communion wine. The fact he’d woken with a splitting headache had been pure coincidence. 

“You are!” Crowley laughed. “Good, little innocent angel, drunk and stumbling home at three am. Who’d’ve thought?”

“Not me, my dear boy. I’m not a scandalous rebel like you.” The words were having trouble rolling off his tongue for some reason. Still, Crowley seemed to understand him alright.

“You think I’m a rebel?”

“Of course. You’re cool and mysterious and handsome and… And cool. Far too cool for me.”

Crowley didn’t reply to that, but he did look shocked. Aziraphale didn’t understand why. It was true.

“Come on, angel. Let’s get you to your room, alright?” He swept down the stairs, making it look easy and making Aziraphale feel a little ill. He wrapped an arm around his middle and helped him up the stairs, slowly and gently. He held him as he fumbled with his keys and finally sighed, rolled his eyes and took them from him, opening the door.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, stumbling into the room and face planting on his bed. He heard a snort of laughter from behind him.

“Good night, Aziraphale,” He whispered.

Aziraphale fell asleep before the door even clicked shut.

* * *

The new term started before Aziraphale was ready for it. He’d been enjoying mourning in peace and privacy. The quiet helped him calm his muddled thoughts into some semblance of order – mostly that he missed Peter beyond what he could bear. But before he knew it, the seminary was filled again. Everyone was smiling and refreshed from their breaks, sharing stories and showing off their Christmas gifts. Their lives went on like it always had. The place was buzzing with energy, making Aziraphale feel more drained than ever. 

He tried to avoid the hubbub as much as possible. But he could only hide for so long. He had work to attend to.

They’d put off Peter’s funeral until everyone was back, so the entire faculty and students could pay their respects if they wanted. And they did. The church was filled with priests, nuns and laypeople. Almost as many as Christmas mass. Despite his sadness, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think how wonderful it was to see how loved Peter had been. He’d always been so kind, so loving, and exactly the type of priest Aziraphale aspired to be. He’d made it look so effortless. He was truly a blessed human, chosen by God to spread His word.

Peter had instilled in Aziraphale the value of giving to charity and giving compassion to all, no matter what. He’d spread love and happiness wherever he went. It had never been better demonstrated than looking around the church, at the number of people in attendance. It made Aziraphale proud.

John ran the service, as Peter’s oldest and best friend. Every other priest had offered, but John had smiled sadly and replied that ‘ _he had to do it_ ’. The service was designed, not as a time of mourning, but of celebration of Peter’s life and the work he did. They sang uplifting hymns and read the most hopeful poems and passages from the bible.

It didn’t stop the tears though.

John managed to hold himself together, even as he gave the eulogy, only crying as they carried Peter’s casket out. Aziraphale would’ve hugged him, had they not both been pallbearers. The sound of his grief was so powerful Aziraphale could feel it in his own chest, alongside the grief he felt for himself. He wished Peter were there to comfort them. He’d always known what to say to soothe the pain. 

Seeing Peter’s casket lowered into the ground, and holding John’s hand as they both sobbed, made it feel truly real for the first time. And Aziraphale allowed himself to weep – not that he could stop himself if he tried. But he allowed himself the grief without shame. It wasn’t weakness to love. It was strength. Peter had always believed that and so did Aziraphale.

Frances joined them and embraced them both tightly as the crowd threw daffodils into the grave, until the entire casket was completely covered. The congregation began to sing Amazing Grace, taking Aziraphale by surprise. He glanced around the tearful faces as they sang. Crowley met his eyes and gave him a solemn nod. He gave him a grateful smile in reply.

If you’d told Aziraphale only a month ago that Crowley would be giving him strength in his time of need, he wouldn’t have believed it, yet here they were. It was a strange world.

* * *

Life settled back into the usual routine with an almost unnatural ease. Everyone returned to their daily routines as if nothing had changed. Aziraphale felt like he couldn’t keep up. It was like he was in slow motion, while everyone else was on normal speed, or maybe faster. It almost made him dizzy and it definitely made him feel alone, unable to keep up. 

He often found himself in the library, staring off into the middle distance, until he caught himself, or Crowley caught him. Crowley seemed to catch him being morose a lot. He would look at Aziraphale concerned and clear his throat, snapping Aziraphale out of his trance. Once or twice, he’d ask, ‘ _Are you alright_?’, but after it became clear he didn’t want to talk about it, Crowley stopped asking. But his concerned looks continued.

Aziraphale tried to get back into his work and lose himself in it. He’d never had trouble with it before. Usually his concentration was impenetrable. But as the days crawled by, he found himself wandering around, dazed and confused, nothing holding his attention for long.

Crowley approached him one evening. Aziraphale had cancelled his usual reading session at the orphanage to spend more time alone and he was sat in the library, mindlessly staring at a page in a book he couldn’t even remember the name of.

“Hey, Father,” Crowley called.

Aziraphale ignored it, half not identifying the voice, half assuming they wanted someone else. He didn’t react to his title anymore, since it was rarely him they needed. He was by no means the only Father in the seminary and usually people left him to himself.

“Hey, angel,” He said, louder now and closer. “Aziraphale,” He poked his shoulder, startling him and making him cry out.

He dropped the book and scrambled to grab it before it hit the carpet. He wasn’t quick enough though, and it hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Fuck.” He picked up the book, inspecting it for damage. When he looked up, Crowley was watching him with mouth agape. “What?” He snapped.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wondered if you were still OK for helping me out with the books and stuff?”

“Oh.” He hadn’t been expecting that. Honestly, he’d assumed Crowley had abandoned their arrangement and was happy to go it alone. But unlike the first time the arrangement had been proposed, he didn’t dread it. In fact, he felt pleased Crowley was coming to him for help. Again.

“Is that a no?” Crowley prompted when he didn’t reply.

“No. It’s not a no. If you wish to resume our sessions, we can.”

Crowley gave a little grin at that, a grin far less of a smirk than usual.

“Cool. Same place, same time?” Crowley asked.

“Of course.”

Crowley sauntered away. Aziraphale caught himself staring after him, before refocusing and trying to find his place in the book. He gave up with a sigh.

* * *

They met in the classroom the following day. Crowley had beaten Aziraphale there for once, so was waiting outside, lazily propped against the wall. He always leaned – on walls, on doorframes, sprawled to the side in his chair, or balancing it precariously on its back legs. Aziraphale didn’t try to stop him. He suspected, with Crowley’s contrarian stance to most things, it would just encourage him to lean back that little bit further, push Aziraphale’s nerves a little bit harder.

“Hey, angel. How’ve you been?” He asked as they entered and he took his usual desk, right at the back. Aziraphale likewise chose a student’s desk, rather than the teacher’s far grander desk. He didn’t really feel the need to keep such a large divide between them now. Though he still didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to sit right next to him, so he chose one desk diagonally in front, turning it slightly to face him.

“Oh, you know...” He trailed off, not wanting to elaborate. He really, really didn’t want to talk about it. The last thing he needed was to start crying and spilling his guts. “How was your holiday?” He tried to change the subject, before remembering that they’d both spent the entire holidays cooped up in the school.

Still, Crowley answered with a shrug, “It wasn’t too bad. Definitely could’ve been worse.”

“Did you get many presents?”

“Ahhh. No. My family doesn’t really do presents. At least, not for me. I’m sure they all got nice stuff though.” He said it casually, as if it didn’t matter, but Aziraphale could sense the tension beneath. Given the little he knew about Crowley’s family, he wasn’t surprised.

Feeling a tinge of guilt, he sought to fix it.

“What about your friends?”

“What friends?” Crowley scoffed. “I don’t have any friends.”

Weren’t they friends? He’d never considered it before. Would he classify them as friends? Maybe they were, or they could be, but the thought of it had never even entered his head, given the beginning of their acquaintance.

Honestly, he’d not even considered getting him anything for Christmas. Because they weren’t friends. At least, not really. Not properly.

And yet Crowley had gone out of his way to get him a card and a thoughtful gift. He would never have expected it.

He’d become almost... fond of him?

Before he could say anything else and put his foot even further into his mouth, Crowley seemed to sense his discomfort and asked, “Anyway, what about you? Get anything good?”

“The nuns gave me this lovely new bowtie and some new books.” He paused. He knew he shouldn’t mention it, but he couldn’t not acknowledge it. He hated to be rude and ungrateful. “And you… Well, thank you.”

He waved him off.

“Don’t say that, alright? It was nothing. Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.” He looked so incredibly uncomfortable. 

Aziraphale frowned at him, but he didn’t push the issue. Had Crowley ever been praised?

“Anyway, let’s get on with it, yeah?” He opened his notebook, containing messy, scribbled notes in a handwriting identical to that which resided in a hideous cherub Christmas card that Aziraphale still had, propped up on his bedside shelves. He’d take it down eventually, now that Christmas was over. But not just yet.

They settled back into the routine with ease and Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

Aziraphale was tasked with taking over Peter’s old confession spot again. He hadn’t done it since that one time, a time that felt like years, rather than mere weeks, ago. He could barely remember how it’d felt to hear himself being mocked by those who were supposed to care for and mentor him. Those who were supposed to love all God’s children and treat them kindly, with love and compassion. Thinking back on it, it didn’t even phase him. It’d only confirmed what he’d long suspected.

He settled into the dark booth again. He hadn’t brought a book this time. Instead, he had his phone and some headphones. He’d downloaded a few audiobooks and was content to simply sit and listen as stories were painted in his mind by the narrators. They all had enchanting, expressive voices, pulling him into the story. He thought he’d hate not having a physical book in front of him, but he found he liked being able to listen to stories and still do other mindless things, like eat or scan ancient texts into the seminaries almost as ancient computer system. Convincing the higher ups to let him buy his relatively cheap laptop had been an uphill battle. He suspected if any of the older clergy knew how to use it, they’d be borrowing it and monitoring his usage – not that he had anything to hide, of course. He wasn’t that sort, not that he judged anyone else. Celibacy was a harder task for some than others.

He had only been in the booth for a few minutes when light flooded in from the other side, startling him. He hastily paused his book and took out his earbuds, just in time to hear the now very familiar voice of Crowley finishing “weeks ago,” and launched into his confession. Much like his previous confession, he read them off, more like a shopping list, rather than a confession. Aziraphale wasn’t at all surprised by anything Crowley listed, having learnt his habits and quirks. He found he couldn’t judge him as harshly as he had before.

Crowley stopped. But before Aziraphale could give his advised repentance, Crowley added, much quieter now, “Father, I’m afraid I’ve developed a bit of a crush on someone. I didn’t mean to. But I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve tried to stop, I have. But they consume my thoughts.”

It sounded more like a cry for help than a confession. Was it the same person he'd had the lustful thoughts for? It seemed likely. Aziraphale knew that happened sometimes, with young priests, who found they weren’t able to give up their human desires for love and sex. It wasn’t unusual. But it didn’t mean he knew how to help him. Aziraphale didn’t get crushes on women. He’d never had a crush, not even at university or after, before joining the seminary, when he’d been free to. Although, with all the people he knew being so much older than him, perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. He thought of all the attractive women he’d met in his life. Pepper, Anathema, Michael, Jennifer (who’d been in his elective history class and had half the school infatuated)… Raphael, Crowley, Newt (in his own nerdy way)... He cut off that line of thinking. Beautiful people surrounded him, but he never noticed them the way others did.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with your dilemma, my child,” He began.

Crowley gave a yelp.

“Aziraphale?!” The exclamation exited the booth and echoed through the church beyond.

“Are you alright, my dear?” He asked, concerned. He’d never had someone react that way to confessing to him. Maybe he’d hurt himself or something? The old wooden booth might’ve given him a splinter.

“I didn’t expect... Fuck. Shit. I’ve gotta go.”

Crowley was up and out of the booth before Aziraphale could even draw breath. He opened the door to see Crowley disappear out of the church. He stared after him, confused and unsure whether to follow or not. In the end, he let it go, shrugged and sat back in the booth, hoping he’d come back.

He didn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles losing two of the most important relationships of his life.

The next study session with Crowley was cancelled and the one after, with simple text messages. Aziraphale hadn’t even seen Crowley in the ten days since the confession incident. He had the distinct and worrying feeling he was being avoided. He didn’t like it, but there was not much he could do about it, unless he wanted to hunt him down somehow. Maybe wait outside of one of his classes or knock on his bedroom door. But that seemed invasive and if Crowley didn’t want to see him, that was his choice. Aziraphale wouldn’t force his company on anyone who didn’t want it.

But suddenly, he felt adrift. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d done with all his time before he’d begun mentoring Crowley. But he didn’t need Crowley. He didn’t need anyone. Peter had been taken from him, just like everyone else would be eventually. It wasn’t fair.

He hated it.

So, with lack of anything else to do, he headed back to the shelter. Pepper always had a way of putting him to work and making him feel useful. Maybe all he needed was to keep himself occupied.

* * *

Pepper looked at him like he’d grown a thousand eyes. Or like she couldn’t believe hers.

“’Ziraphale, what’re you doing here?”

“I came to help out. Unless… Do you not need me?” Until that second, he hadn’t considered that just showing up might have been inconvenient. He was so used to his rigid schedules. To have it changed through him out of balance. People had joked that you could set your watch by Aziraphale and his routines. It had been a point of pride for him. Now it had him lost.

“Of course! I always need an extra pair of hands, it’s just that you aren’t usually here at this time.”

He sighed, “I know. I just need to keep myself busy.”

Her expression of confusion turned to one of sympathetic understanding.

“You’re always welcome here, anytime you like. You know that. And it does get easier. Some days are harder than others, but it gets easier.”

Now it was his turn to adopt the look of befuddlement. Losing his sessions with Crowley wasn’t all that bad. Sure, he’d grown to enjoy their teasing banter, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

“When I lost my grandma was seeing how much it hurt my mum. It hurt me, obviously, but my mum was absolutely devastated.”

It dawned on him that she was thinking of Peter. And for the first time in weeks – since he’d died – Aziraphale realised he hadn’t been. He understood why Pepper had come to that conclusion. It made more sense than ‘ _I’m sad because the thorn in my side is avoiding me_ ’, that was for sure. In fact, it made him feel guilty that he hadn’t been thinking about Peter. He deserved better. As did John, who still hadn’t recovered from his own grief. If anything, he looked worse as the days passed. Aziraphale worried about him. 

As it was, he didn’t know how to respond, not wanting to correct Pepper’s incorrect assumption and make himself look like an unfeeling arsehole, so he just gave her a sad smile. Thankfully, she didn’t push the issue, but she did keep a close eye on him for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually, he’d had enough and decided to ask for her advice.

“Pepper?”

She looked up from the paperwork she’d been staring at when she hadn’t been staring at him.

“How do you make friends with someone who doesn’t like you?” He asked sheepishly.

“Honestly, Zira, you’re better off asking Anathema.”

“I don’t know about that. She might make lots of friends, but that’s because she’s just like that, personality-wise. You and I though… We’re too quiet to make friends as easily as her.”

“Are you calling her loud?” She accused.

"Not at all. That’s not what I meant.” He scrambled to backtrack.

“Geez. Relax, I’m just kidding.” She saw he was serious about this, so she sobered and thought about it for a moment, chewing on her lip. “I guess figure out the things you have in common and focus on them?” That might have been useful advice, if they had anything at all, even a single thing, that they shared.

“And if we have nothing in common?”

“Then why would you want to be friends with them? You’d just argue all the time.” She shrugged.

He sighed. That had proven accurate time and time again. They’d been getting along far better, but it always ended up in arguments and tension. That wasn’t exactly the basis for a friendship.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Is this about Crowley?”

He turned to her, shocked. How did she know? She seemed to always read his mind.

“Who else would you be talking about, exactly? Outside the Church, you talk to a grand total of 3 people. And in the seminary, Crowley is the only student you talk about regularly. Except Raphael, but I haven’t heard you swooning over him in months.”

He made a noise somewhere between a huff and a splutter, before hurriedly responding, “I do not swoon!”

“Whatever you need to believe, goldilocks.”

He simply pouted at her in reply. She didn’t seem at all repentant. But then, that wasn’t exactly her style.

“I think I’d better be getting back to the bookkeeping.”

She smiled at him, a wicked smile, which let him know that she knew he was uncomfortable and running away. But she didn’t argue.

He grabbed the physical files and his laptop and set himself up at a corner table. Every few months, he did the books for the place. Pepper wasn’t bad at maths, but she was infinitely better at running the place, so Aziraphale donned the hat of accountant and made sure that all the numbers added up. They had been audited several times, due to his meticulous work. The tax man said he’d never encountered such perfect records. Aziraphale had flushed. He hadn’t meant to be such a perfectionist.

“Excuse me, Father?” A timid voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up from the bank statements to see a young girl. She was at most 18, but she was far more likely to be 16 or 17 If he had to guess. She had sad, haunted eyes, but she was looking at him hopefully. He knew the look. It was the look of someone lost, who was coming to him for salvation, believing he would have the answer.

He hoped he, or God, did.

“Yes, my child?” He indicated the chair next to his, and she sat, giving him a grateful look.

“Pepper said that you were the person to talk to about spiritual or religious stuff.”

“She’s right. I don’t just wear the collar as a decoration,” He joked, hoping to put her at ease.

She gave him an uneasy smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. She was picking at her fingernails, clearly uncomfortable and nervous. She looked so very small and infinitely fragile, hunched over, trying not to occupy space. He knew that feeling. It was either that, or defiantly occupy the space. Like Crowley did.

“What troubles you, my child?” He expected answers to the many questions cluttering his mind, like: How had a young girl come to be homeless? How had she come to be so sad? Where were her family and friends?

“Am I going to hell?”

The terror hidden in her words was frightening to Aziraphale. Why would she ask such a thing?

“Why should you think so?” He asked, trying to meet her eyes, but she’d looked away, avoiding him, with guilt or shame.

“My mum… She said I was. When she kicked me out.” She’d started to cry, silent tears falling down her drawn and pale face. She was so skinny. She’d clearly been on the streets for some time before she’d found herself here. And no doubt Pepper was doing her best to feed her.

Aziraphale handed her his handkerchief, which she took and used to wipe away the tears. What would make a mother forsake her own child like that? It was a question he’d asked himself more times than he’d admit, even to himself.

“Why do you think she said that?”

“Because I’m gay.” She’d buried her face in the handkerchief, as if to hide from him, so it came out muffled, but he still heard it.

“Oh.” It wasn’t an unfamiliar problem. Aziraphale had heard confessions of that nature more times than he could count. It wasn’t something he knew how to help with, really. Any confessions of a romantic or sexual nature were so far out of his wheelhouse, he didn’t have the first clue how to empathise. But he knew compassion and love for his fellow man. It always hurt him to hear the shame and guilt coming from the other side of the partition. But this girl, she wasn’t an anonymous voice in the booth. She was a human, sitting beside him, sobs shaking her entire tiny body.

It was his job to soothe and guide. It was his job to listen and reassure and care. He knew what he was ‘supposed’ to say, to toe the official Church line, as it were. He certainly knew what the Archbishop would say. But he wasn’t Gabriel. He was Aziraphale and he didn’t care if doing the right thing went against the Church’s policy.

Aziraphale had never condemned those who felt same sex attraction. Firstly, it wasn’t his place to judge. That was God’s purview. Secondly, he truly didn’t understand why it should be considered wrong. Love was love, so long as it was between consenting adults. And love should be celebrated. And thirdly, who did it hurt? It was no one else’s business who someone loved.

He didn’t care who disagreed. This girl needed his support, not his damnation. So, support her he would.

“My dear, listen to me. You are not going to hell for loving someone. God created us to love. To love Him, first and foremost. But He also created us to love each other. That you should love another woman is no sin.”

“But the bible says…” Her eyes were wide, beseeching, like she wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

“The bible isn’t infallible. It was written a long time ago, by men, who knew no better. But Jesus taught love and tolerance, before all else. I know which one I believe. Don’t you agree?”

She still looked somewhat unconvinced.

“My dear, love should not be a sin and I would not want to serve a God who would condemn those who give love. The Church may disagree with me, but it doesn’t matter what they think. What do you think? Who is your God and what does He believe?”

She seemed to think it over for a moment. Her eyes wandered around the room, unseeing, before they landed on him. A smile bloomed on her face, making her look even younger. His heart ached for her.

“I think you’re right, Father. I don’t think God would see how I feel for Anna and think it’s wrong. Or at least, not the God I believe in.”

“Then you have your answer…” He trailed off, not having gotten her name.

“Caterina,” She answered.

“Caterina. I wish you and Anna all the best.”

“Thank you, Father…”

“Aziraphale.”

As everyone always did, she looked confused by the name, but she recovered and thanked him again, before she rose and left him again.

He turned back to the accounting with a sigh. He was always happy to help, but this should be his job, not sitting around the seminary and wasting time. He wanted to see the smiles on people’s faces as he guided them. He should see her every Sunday in church, and he should be able to look after her. But as it was, once she left the shelter, he’d likely never see her again. He’d never know what happened to her. And it hurt. He just had to have faith all would be alright.

He tried to focus back on the task but found himself giving up after a few minutes. He made his excuses to Pepper and left, heading back to the seminary. His mind returned to Caterina’s face, which had lit up at the mention of her beloved. He hoped she would find peace.

But peace alluded him as he tossed and turned in bed that night. Something about the interaction had begun to nag at him and as he finally drifted off to sleep, he thought of Crowley as he’d confessed his own crush. But he was asleep before he could imagine what it meant.

* * *

He took to listening to more and more audiobooks, to escape into the world of fantasy and wonder. He often found himself wandering the corridors, headphones in, just daydreaming. He knew he should be using those moments to be doing charity work. But he found himself not wanting to be around people. Besides, he started doing most of his charity work because of Peter. And he didn’t need anymore reminders of him right now. It made him feel guilty, but he pushed it to the back of his mind and immersed himself into stories instead. He was careful to always time his walks to avoid as many people as possible.

Until one day, he ran into the new students. Adam, Wensleydale and Brian were laughing at something or other as they walked towards him. They greeted him warmly as he took his headphones out and gave them his most priest-like, serene smile.

“Hey, Father Aziraphale!” Adam was grinning widely, which seemed to be his default expression.

“Hello. Shouldn’t you be in class?” He realised, as he asked it, he had memorised their schedules again. He’d originally done it for his arrangement with Crowley, but since they’d not had a session in three weeks, he had no reason to know where they should or shouldn’t be.

“Father John wasn’t feeling well –” Adam began.

“Again,” Brian interjected.

“Again,” Adam nodded, “So class was cancelled.”

At the thought of John being unwell, a chill swept over Aziraphale. He wasn’t going to… Aziraphale stopped his anxiety from running away from him. His heart was pounding wildly, but he took some deep breaths, attempting to tame it. He opened his eyes, that he had closed at some point, to see the three watching him cautiously.

“Are you alright?” Wensleydale asked. He was the most openly empathetic of the three and, Aziraphale thought, might make a decent priest.

“I’m fine. Just had a sudden dizzy spell.” At their triplet concerned looks, he assured them, “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“If you say so. But actually, maybe you should sit down?” Wensleydale suggested.

Aziraphale gave them a kind, thankful smile. It was forced, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Thank you. I will.”

“We’ll walk with you. We’re heading to the library too, aren’t we?”

They all nodded.

He didn’t ask how they knew where he was headed. It was where he was always headed.

As they walked, the three younger men talked between themselves, but tried to stay quiet, so as not to disturb Aziraphale. He appreciated it. He didn’t care to join in their idle chatter, still trying in vain to calm his spinning mind. He couldn’t lose John too. Not now. Not so soon.

He still could barely believe Peter was gone. And it wasn’t fair. Why had God taken him? Peter was the best of them. He deserved to live. If God took John too, he would… He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash something or quit the priesthood. Why should he serve a God who would take Peter away like that?

“Father,” Adam interrupted his jumbled thoughts again, “Have you seen Crowley recently?”

He furrowed his brow, confused and a tad scared. Considering they shared all their classes, it seemed a strange question. Shouldn't they see him every day? 

Aziraphale didn’t think they knew about their arrangement. At least, he hoped they didn’t. He didn’t want to explain why he was tutoring him, and he assumed Crowley didn’t want people knowing he was being tutored. Though, it was less tutoring and more a two-person discussion group, since Crowley wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t even lazy. He just needed some prompting and a bit of help with the more complex texts, font-wise.

Either way, he didn’t want people knowing.

“No. Not recently. Why?”

“He hasn’t been to class in a week or so. We just wondered if you’d seen him around. We’re a little worried about him.”

“Oh. Well, no. I haven’t seen him. I don’t even really know him…” He added, somewhat hastily.

“Neither do we. He tends to keep to himself, doesn’t he?” Adam added.

“Actually, he seems to like being alone. It’s a bit strange, really,” Wensleydale commented idly.

Despite having thought the same thing not too long ago, it seemed harsh to discuss Crowley this way. Aziraphale wasn’t sure where the defensiveness was coming from, but it felt strange. Maybe because he understood him better now? He’d been hurt. No wonder he wanted to avoid getting too close to people, when the people closest to him had betrayed him.

“Some people are just less outgoing than others, that’s all,” He assured the students. They seemed to accept that, nodding along. They parted ways when they reached the library, but their words stayed with him long after.

* * *

He searched everywhere for Crowley. He tried every place he’d ever seen him hanging out, and when that failed, he tried every other place. Eventually, as night started to fall, he gave up. He wandered up to their classroom. He was surprised to find light spilling out from underneath the door. It was strange for anyone else to use the room but thinking that maybe someone had left the light on, he knocked.

“Bugger off,” Came the call from within.

He knew that voice, so instead of heeding the warning and going away, he opened the door and poked his head in.

“Crowley,” He gasped breathlessly. 

Crowley was slouched in one of the chairs, once again playing on his phone. He looked disheveled, clothes more wrinkled than usual and hair flat. His glare at being disturbed softened slightly at the sight of Aziraphale, before hardening again.

“What do you want?” He grunted.

Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Had he done anything wrong? They’d been getting along fine, mostly. The rudeness of the ‘greeting’ got under Aziraphale’s skin, and the anger and restlessness he’d been feeling since he’d last seen Crowley bubbled up. He’d tried to find him to make amends, but it was impossible. _Crowley_ was impossible.

“What is your problem? Why are you so rude to everyone all the time? Just when you begin to be nice…”

“I’m not nice,” He sneered. “I never claimed to be nice.”

“Well good thing you didn’t, because it’d be a lie. But then, lying isn’t a problem for you, is it?”

At the snide reference to his confessions, Crowley lost it. He physically growled as he stood, knocking the chair he’d been reclining in to the floor with a racket.

“Confession is supposed to be confidential and anonymous. How dare you –”

“And it usually is. But it’s hard to stay anonymous if you scare the priest and run out like the devil is chasing you. Why? Why did you run?”

“Is that any of your business?” Crowley shot back.

“It is! You scared me.”

“Oh no, poor angel got scared,” He pouted mockingly.

Aziraphale’s fists were clenched so tight they were shaking with the strain. Things had gotten out of hand, but he couldn’t stop himself. Anger welled up from deep within.

“Listen, we’re not friends and I don’t care whether you fail or not. I was just doing this as a favour for Father John, alright? But if you’re going to act like this, you can forget about it.”

“Great. I don’t need you anyway.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Aziraphale turned and stormed out. He was seeing red. He wasn’t an angry man. He swore he wasn’t. But at that moment, he almost believed he could’ve lost his temper completely. It was a dangerous feeling and one he’d never experienced before. He didn’t like the idea of losing control of himself. As he stormed through the halls back towards his rooms, his blood cooled enough to have him thinking slightly more clearly.

He wanted to go to Peter or John. They always knew how to counsel him when he was feeling off balance. But Peter was gone, and John was sick. He was alone.

Aziraphale slammed the door to his room and let out a guttural scream. He didn’t care who heard, but surprisingly no one came to check on him. They were all probably too scared to approach. The idea of anyone being afraid of him seemed ludicrous. But he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t lash out again. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Collapsing onto his bed, he sighed. Everything was falling apart.

* * *

John found him the next day, at dinner. He sat down beside him with a sigh. Aziraphale looked at John and saw him as if for the first time. He was haggard. He’d let his stubble grow, which was a dull grey, making him seem infinitely older.

“Father, how are you?” Aziraphale asked.

John turned his glassy eyes to him. The usual bright spark was gone, leaving behind a sadness that took Aziraphale’s breath away.

“I’m tired. I haven’t been well,” Came the monotone answer.

“Are you feeling any better?” Aziraphale asked, almost afraid of the answer.

A shake of the head was his reply.

He prayed, _‘Please, God. Not him too. Take me and give him back Peter. But don’t take John too. I’ll do anything…’_

But he didn’t think God was listening, as John fell into a coughing fit, with a terrifying rattle. Once he’d stopped coughing and caught his breath, he turned back to Aziraphale.

“Can I ask another favour of you, my dear?”

Aziraphale couldn’t say no at the best of times. But with John looking so miserable and ill, he would walk over hot coals if it would help. He’d do anything to protect those he had left. He hadn’t even known he’d lost Agnes, but if he could, he’d go back in time and do whatever he could to save her.

“Of course, you can ask me for anything.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to reach out to Crowley, directly and indirectly. His success is questionable.

“You were always so sweet, Aziraphale. You remind me very much of…” John sniffed and cleared his throat. “Well. Anyway, I won’t be able to take my class again tomorrow. I know you aren’t a teacher, but if Gabriel hears I’ve cancelled another class… Just talk about the feeding of the 5 thousand and it’ll be fine. It’s just the first-year students, so they already know and trust you.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to teach. He especially didn’t want to teach the first-year’s. But he’d said he’d do anything. He'd backed himself into a corner. 

“Of course, John. Don’t worry. I’ll look after it.”

John smiled at him gratefully. It was a brittle smile, but it was more than Aziraphale had seen on him since Peter had passed. It made agreeing seem worth it.

Until he added, “And make sure young Crowley attends, will you? I’m worried about him.”

If both John and the other students were concerned for Crowley, it must be serious, since Crowley didn’t seem to invite people to care about him. In fact, he grumbled and groaned and did his best to push people away. But Aziraphale wasn’t so easily pushed away… Except they hadn’t talked since their fight in the classroom a week ago.

He wanted to find him and apologise – again – but what should he be apologising for exactly? Crowley had been angry at him for something, he just wasn’t sure what. It was Crowley who’d started it by flouncing out of the confessional like a drama queen.

As far as Aziraphale could see, his only sin was caring. And being the one Crowley was confessing to, which was apparently the crux of the matter since he’d been fine – or at least as fine as Crowley ever was – before his confession. But why did it matter it was him in the booth and not some other priest? He wasn’t there to judge, no matter what someone confessed. He was there to listen and absolve. Besides, in comparison to some confessions, Crowley’s were positively boring. He’d told him before that he was there to listen and be impartial, but Crowley apparently didn’t want to be heard outside the confessional. Did he really think Aziraphale would gossip behind his back? The thought of anyone thinking he would do such a thing offended him. He would never, unless they confessed a serious crime and even then, he’d only tell Gabriel and/or the police – though again, that was a point of contention within the Church. But Aziraphale was of the opinion that staying silent in the face of a crime should be a crime in and of itself. God would judge their soul after death, but that didn’t mean they should walk free in life, committing whatever atrocities they wished.

There was no point apologising until Crowley was ready to hear it and move on. Given he’d avoided him like the plague for weeks now, Aziraphale was confident in saying that Crowley didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to pretend it’d never happened, and that they were perfect strangers. But they weren’t anymore. Aziraphale knew about his eyes and his family and his love of philosophy and his sense of humour. And Crowley knew about Aziraphale too. And he’d given him a Christmas card. It had to signify something. But what?

Maybe one day he’d understand Crowley. But he suspected it might take millennia.

* * *

He arrived at the classroom ten minutes early. He wasn’t at all surprised that he’d beaten the students there. He wandered in and slowly set about tidying up the teacher’s desk, moving the stationery items from one side to the other, then deciding they’d been better where they were and moving them back. He sat with a sigh but soon stood again and began pacing.

He didn’t know why he’d agreed to this. He wondered if it was too late to cancel, but just as the thought entered his head, Adam, Brian and Wensleydale entered. They looked shocked at the sight of him, but at Adam’s nod, they all sat.

“Hi Father Aziraphale. How’re you going?” Adam asked. 

How was he going? He wasn’t sure really. He felt tired all the time, like sleeping had no effect on his energy levels at all. He wondered if he was coming down with another illness. Maybe if he died, then Peter could come back?

 _‘Why didn’t you take me instead? Take me instead?’_ He'd asked, as he knelt in the church that morning, asking God why. But there’d been no reply and he’d felt nothing but cold and alone, rather than the usual warm reassurance he felt, kneeling and praying. It was like God had abandoned him.

But he’s quickly shut that blasphemous thought down. It wasn’t God’s fault, but his. He was asking for selfish things and questioning God’s will. Of course God wasn't listening. He needed to trust, but how could he trust when everything felt wrong?

He shook off the depressing thoughts.

“I’m fine, Adam,” He lied through a smile. “How are you boys?”

His question was met with a chorus of “Fine, thanks,” in almost creepy synchronicity. These three had bonded, there was no doubt of that.

“Alright, well let’s wait for our last member and then we’ll get started, shall we?”

The three students talked quietly between themselves while they waited. And waited. The class should have started already, but Aziraphale was stubborn. The others threw him looks, as if to prompt him to begin, but he wasn’t going to be swayed. At ten past, he sighed angrily. This was like their first meeting all over again.

“Father, shouldn't we just start? I don’t think Crowley is coming…” Adam said, cautiously, like he worried about Aziraphale’s reaction.

“Oh, he’ll be here alright,” He grumbled, more to himself than Adam. The boys traded confused looks, but Aziraphale was not to be deterred. He had an idea, and nothing would stand in his way.

“Start your essays, I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He stormed out before they could reply.

He thundered through the seminary at a pace very unlike his usual leisurely stroll. He wasn’t built for speed, but he was on a mission. He reached the door and used his momentum to knock, almost completely crashing into it head first. When he didn’t receive a reply, he banged harder. His fist stung from the pounding, but he kept banging until he heard movement from within.

“What the fuck?” A grumpy and rumpled Crowley answered the door, peeking his head out. From what Aziraphale could see, his hair was sticking up every which way, which was rather adorable and made him seem even younger than usual, but Aziraphale didn’t have time to appreciate it, before he was berating him.

“Get to class.”

“What?” Crowley was frowning at him. He was also squinting, though whether it was because he’d just woken up (at 11am, for God’s sake!) or whether it was because of his eyesight, Aziraphale wasn’t sure and didn’t particularly care.

“You’re missing class,” He continued.

“Yes, and?” Crowley had recovered enough to be sarcastic, so he couldn't be too unwell. 

“And it’s not the first time. So, get up and go to class. Now.”

“Who died and made you boss?” He snarked, before his face fell, and he looked so extremely guilty.

Aziraphale drew in a harsh breath, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry, angel.” He’d opened the door slightly, as if to emerge and chase him if he chose to run.

But Aziraphale couldn’t run even if he wanted to. He was frozen to the spot, staring. Crowley was wearing only a tiny pair of black boxer shorts, which were presumably his sleepwear. He truly was mostly skin and bone, but not necessarily in a bad way, Aziraphale thought. He had some muscle and he carried himself with confidence, making himself seem bigger. 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“Talk to me, ok? I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly…”

Aziraphale realised he’d been staring dumbly and snapped himself out of it.

Glad his silence had been confused for offense or sadness, rather than whatever it was making him feel like his heart was ready to burst, he replied, “I know. Now, please, get dressed and get to class?” He employed his biggest, saddest puppy dog eyes and pout and waited.

If he couldn't boss Crowley around, he could use his other skills. This angelic, begging face had gotten him out of more trouble than he could remember. 

Seemingly guilted into complying, Crowley nodded and went to shut his door. Aziraphale stopped him, with a hand on the door.

“No. I don’t want you locking this door and ignoring me. I’ll wait right here.” It wasn’t said commandingly, more matter of fact.

“You’re going to watch me change?” Crowley’s face had reddened.

For some reason, the thought of watching him put clothes on seemed more indecent then just seeing him like this. But, despite the heat of his own face and pounding heart, he committed.

“Yes. Now hurry up and dress, please. The others are waiting.”

Crowley let the door swing open slightly farther as he retreated into his room, which was covered in mess, making Aziraphale want to tut and scold him, but he refrained. He’d tackle one issue at a time.

Crowley picked up two bits of black fabric from the floor, which turned out to be a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. How he could discern that, amongst the other bits of black fabric, Aziraphale had no idea. Crowley hastily put them on, before turning back to Aziraphale, who looked away, unsure why he’d not turned to give him privacy before. His face flooded with warmth again, as he felt a twinge of something in his belly. It was probably guilt, he thought.

“I don’t suppose I have time to brush my teeth?” He asked, exiting and shutting the door behind him.

“No. We’re late as it is.”

“Fine,” He sighed. As they walked, he vainly tried to tame his wild red hair, but to no avail. The usually perfectly coiffed quiff was a disaster.

Aziraphale liked it though. It looked more naturally _Crowley_.

“You don’t have to walk me all the way there. I’m not gonna get lost or disappear or anything.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, just lengthened his steps, making Crowley have to practically trot beside him. He might have longer legs, but the way he sauntered made it difficult for him to scurry the same way Aziraphale could. It gave the priest a strange sense of gratification. Serves him right, that he should have to jog. He had only himself to blame.

They made it back to the classroom in record time. Aziraphale opened the door and gestured Crowley through with a self-satisfied smirk. Crowley glared at him but entered and plopped into the nearest chair. The other men had paused halfway through a conversation, jaws hanging open. Their eyes held a certain respect and fear as they turned to Aziraphale. He merely shrugged with a sheepish grin, before making his way to the front of the classroom. He cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted.

“You’re taking the class? Where’s Father John?” Came the exasperating voice from the back of the class.

“He’s not well. He asked me to take the class. Now, don’t you think you’ve disrupted the class enough?” He huffed.

Crowley lifted an eyebrow at him but stayed quiet – for once. Aziraphale could practically hear his sassy comebacks, whether he spoke them out loud or not.

After that, the class was relatively uneventful. The three good students were attentive and took copious notes, thought he did notice notes being passed between them. Crowley stared at him the entire lesson, not writing a single bit of information down. He didn’t even look at his phone. Aziraphale assumed it was an attempt to unnerve him, so attempted to ignore him, choosing instead to focus on Adam, Brain and Wensleydale, chatting and laughing.

Except that his eyes would drift, against his will, to Crowley. Their eyes locked more often than he felt comfortable with and he always struggled to unlock them again. He flushed, thinking of not being able to look away from him, even while he changed. The image of the skinny body moving and flexing played behind his eyes and he found himself wondering again if the boy ate. But the students weren’t his responsibility… Were they?

He tried to catch Crowley after class, but Adam stopped him, with a grin and a compliment on his teaching. Aziraphale attempted to wave him off, eyes following Crowley as he picked up his stuff, but by the time Adam finished speaking, Crowley had disappeared, slipping out of the room like a shadow. Aziraphale tried to follow, but to no avail. The man was nowhere to be found.

Looks like he was still being avoided. He sighed. Alone again. Naturally.

* * *

The next week disappeared in a haze. He didn’t do anything but eat, sleep and read. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should feel guilty about it. But the front of his mind couldn’t care less. John had taken his class back over, thanking Aziraphale profusely for his help. His eyes looked less glassy and more present. More alive. Aziraphale was glad – and relieved – to see it.

“Did they behave themselves? Adam can sometimes get a little bit overexcited,” He asked over dinner.

Aziraphale stared at his meal, unseeing and untasting. He wouldn’t have been able to recall what he was eating, even with the threat of eternal damnation.

“They were fine.”

“And Crowley?”

His head snapped up at the name.

John gave him a curious look, cocking his head and opening his mouth as if to inquire, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“He attended. He sat at the back and didn’t say a word the entire lesson, like expected.” He sighed fondly, before catching himself and turning it into a cough, hiding the unconscious smile behind his hand.

He missed sparring with him. He missed having someone to talk to inside the seminary that was around his own age. He missed his dark humour and deep laugh.

He missed _him_. He might be a pain in the rear end, but he’d made Aziraphale’s life interesting for the first time in… Well, he wasn’t sure his life had ever been this interesting.

John sighed, “That sounds like him. I do worry about that boy…”

Aziraphale hummed an agreement.

“What do you think we should do?”

Again, the word ‘we’ caught Aziraphale’s attention. The students weren’t his responsibility, but if John wanted his input, he’d try to help. He put down his cutlery, and delicately dabbed his mouth, in case of crumbs. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“Crowley clearly needs some assistance. You’ve helped immeasurably, but he still doesn’t take it seriously. I often wonder if he even wants to be here.”

Despite having wondered the same thing more than once, Aziraphale rushed to assure him. Would John side with Gabriel and Michael on having Crowley expelled or pushed out? The idea of it scared Aziraphale, though he wasn’t sure why. Something was sitting wrong in his stomach. That would teach him not to pay attention to his meals.

And when had he become Crowley’s champion? It wasn’t so long ago he was his worst detractor.

“Oh, I’m sure he does. He just doesn’t learn the same way as the others.”

“And it’s not just him either. I worry about how we can keep all the students engaged… What can we do?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, before the seed of an idea began to sprout in his mind. It might not work, but the worst that could happen would be a ‘no’.

“How about we let the students have laptops?”

“You think that’s a good idea?” John looked incredibly sceptical.

“It helps some of them learn, it makes research far easier, and it would make reading their essays a lot easier for you, not having to read their handwriting.”

John’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Having all the students hand write their assignments put a lot of stress on his eyes and, knowing some of the handwriting of the students, Aziraphale was surprised he could read any of it at all. Some may as well be writing in hieroglyphs for how illegible they were. 

“It might be worth a shot,” John mused.

Aziraphale tried not to look too excited. He’d tried to fight for computers or laptops for students, even shared ones, for years. It was, after all, part of his job to modernise the Church. But he’d been thwarted at every turn, by elderly clergy who thought the internet was nothing but porn and viruses. While Aziraphale couldn’t exactly argue those things didn’t exist – and in dizzying quantity – he could also argue that through the internet, the students could see the paintings at the Sistine Chapel or browse ancient texts housed in museums around the world. But the Archbishop vetoed it. Aziraphale really, really didn’t like that man sometimes.

He'd been lucky they'd eventually caved and bought him one – if only to buy his silence. It had worked. Until now. 

“We wouldn’t have to purchase the laptops ourselves, of course. The students could supply their own. And we can monitor their internet usage and block any… Unsavoury websites.”

His mind cast back to the discussion of dirty books. Of a near naked Crowley, reading erotic literature... He stopped himself before he went too far down that path. He was shocked at himself, but chalked it up to the lingering shock of seeing Crowley that way and still being upset by the rift between them. 

“Would you be willing to take on that task?”

He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He didn’t want to babysit the students and scold them for their online habits, but there wasn’t anyone else at the seminary who could moonlight as the IT guy. He supposed he’d asked for this. He really should’ve seen this coming.

“I suppose so…” He hedged.

John gave him a smile and took his hand in his. His hand was cold and shook.

“I’ll bring it to the Archbishop and Bishop. Thank you for all your help, Aziraphale. You truly are an angel.”

John stood and walked away, leaving Aziraphale feeling afloat. He hadn’t meant to suggest it. But wouldn’t it help Crowley? Surely using a phone screen couldn’t be exactly the best for his eyesight. His phone might be far bigger than Aziraphale’s outdated model, but it still had to be a strain. And if he could do it without calling attention to his affliction, wasn’t that a good thing? Aziraphale wasn’t certain why he cared. Crowley had been nothing but rude their entire acquaintance. While it was Aziraphale’s job to care, Crowley clearly didn’t want or need his empathy. He’d made his position quite clear. Still, Aziraphale wasn’t one to give up on anyone. And something in him told him that Crowley needed an ally. Maybe not a friend, but someone to talk to, at the very least.

He wasn’t an angel or a saint, but if he could help even one stubborn, angry, red-headed man, it would all be worth it. And a miracle. But he was determined.

* * *

The news that technology would finally be coming to St Peter’s was well received by almost all the seminary residents. The Archbishop and Bishop weren’t happy about it, but when word had leaked to the general population, they were powerless in the face of such overwhelming excitement. John hadn’t mentioned Aziraphale’s name while bringing up the idea with the heads, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew whose idea it really was. As if the Archbishop needed another reason to dislike him. If looks could kill, John and Aziraphale would both be dead and buried. But neither of them cared.

Not that Aziraphale cared about much these days. He felt like he was living underwater or in slow motion. Life was happening around him, but he couldn’t touch it, no matter how hard he tried. His mind felt sluggish and he couldn’t concentrate. It frustrated him. But even the frustration felt fuzzy and distant.

He shook his head with a growl, trying to read the same page for the 5th time. No matter what he did, not a single word stayed in his head. If only it was available as an audiobook...

“Boo!” A voice shouted from behind him. He gave a start and turned around to see a Cheshire Cat grin on Sister Michael’s face. Michael wasn’t supposed to be in the seminary, but God help anyone who tried to stop her from doing anything.

“How many times have I told you..?” He growled.

She ignored his glare and plopped herself down beside him. He was sat on one of the park benches situated within the seminary. It was a sunny day and he didn’t feel like being confined to the library. That should’ve been a sign something was wrong with him. But if he’d been paying attention, he’d have realised something had been wrong for a while now.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel cakes. I’m just teasing.”

“Well, stop it.” Usually, hanging out with Michael was one of his favourite things. Especially when he could drag her along to Pepper’s shelter. Michael and Pepper had immediately clicked and become firm friends. Aziraphale had watched with astonishment as they laughed and joked like they’d known each other forever, within ten minutes of meeting. Of course, Pepper didn’t love the idea of nuns. She worried they were forced into it by 'the patriarchal system inherent within most modern religions that sought to supress women’s voices and deny them rights'. But Michael didn’t do anything unless she wanted to. The Pope himself could give her an order and she was just as likely to ignore it if it didn’t suit her. 

Aziraphale had almost resented how well they got along. He’d never found friendship so easy. And he worried he might get left out. He needn’t have worried though. The three of them got on like a house on fire. They were a part of his chosen family and miraculously, they seemed to feel the same for him.

But at present, he wasn’t in the mood for arguing or teasing. He wasn’t in the mood to laugh or joke. He just wanted to find a nice hole to hide in until the world forgot he existed. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

“What’s wrong? Are you ok?” She asked, suddenly uncharacteristically serious. It was what he called her ‘protective big sister’ mode.

“It’s nothing. I just have a bit of a headache that’s all.” That much wasn’t a lie. But it was probably because he hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink in several hours. He just wasn’t hungry. Another sign something was amiss.

“Well,” She barrelled on regardless, now back to her light-hearted self “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Huh?” He asked, racking his brain for any possible achievement she might be referring to. He came up empty handed.

“For finally modernising this place. God knows, it needs it.”

“Well, don’t count your chickens just yet. If the Archbishop can find a way to stop it, he will.”

“Ya know, if the Archbish wasn’t tall, dark and handsome, he’d have no redeeming qualities,” She said, far too casually.

Aziraphale stuttered a panicked reply, but no coherent thoughts were to be found. Thinking of the Archbishop as handsome was, though not untrue (he had an imposing stature and intriguing violet eyes. His hair was greying, but it lent itself to his authoritative air), was certainly not something he’d ever dwelt on before. Besides which, he didn’t want anyone overhearing them. What would someone say if a nun was caught lusting after an Archbishop?

She laughed, catching the attention of everyone around. His heart sank. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and his actions continue to cause Aziraphale to feel things he doesn't know how to deal with.

“Oh, calm down. I’m just joking. His Grace, Gabe the babe’s too old to be really hot. Although the silver fox thing kinda works for him...” She laughed at his rapidly flushing face.

If he didn’t adore her beyond words, he thought he might just hate her.

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard some of the other nuns say. I’m not gonna name names, obviously. Personally, I don’t see it, but I wouldn’t, would I?”

He’d managed to take a deep breath and calm himself somewhat. Besides, there was no one around to hear, which he was infinitely thankful for.

It was true that as a nun, Michael was supposed to keep her thoughts chaste. Of course, she didn’t fancy Gabriel. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the very idea. Some of the students, he might’ve understood. But the Archbishop? Definitely not.

“Oh no,” She said, staring off into the distance, “Here comes trouble.”

Aziraphale whipped his head around to see a smiling Raphael and a scowling Crowley heading straight for them from across the courtyard.

“Raph! What’s up?”

“Hello, Michael. I am well. And you?” Raphael greeted, calling her ‘Michelle', rather than Michael, and gave her a fist bump, something Aziraphale had never mastered. It was just something he wasn’t cool enough to pull off.

Michael didn’t seem to mind the mispronunciation of her name, as she was smiling widely at him. This, Aziraphale could understand. But Gabriel… He still wasn’t convinced.

Crowley was pointedly avoiding everyone’s eyes, but it seemed to Aziraphale, that he was avoiding him the most, positioning himself behind Raphael, as if using him as a human shield between them. Had Aziraphale really done something that bad?

“I’m good. And who’s your friend?” She asked, looking pointedly at Crowley.

Crowley shrunk back from her gaze, which seemed strange to Aziraphale. He didn’t seem the shy or timid type. But then, Aziraphale also wondered at hearing Raphael and Crowley being called friends. Were they? He hadn’t seen them hanging out at all, apart from that one argument. But Crowley had mentioned that he’d told Raphael the truth about his eyes, which he’d been reluctant to do with Aziraphale.

Raphael usually hung around his fellow older students. They naturally seemed to gravitate towards the Italian, but then, everyone did. Perhaps he and Crowley had formed a friendship and he’d abandoned the others to spend time with the reclusive younger man.

Wasn’t that good? Didn’t Aziraphale want him finding friends here? So, why wasn’t he happy about this news?

“This is Antoni, he is a new student,” He answered.

“Hi Antoni,” Michael held out her hand, which Crowley took. He didn’t bother to smile, just nodded at her. Her smile didn’t waver though, not that it ever really did.

“It’s Crowley, actually,” He corrected stiffly. Raphael didn’t seem fussed by being contradicted.

“How are you, Crowley? Do you know Aziraphale?” She turned as if to introduce them.

Crowley’s eyes flicked up and met Aziraphale’s for the first time during the interaction. His eyes held fear and apprehension, as if afraid that Aziraphale would spill his secrets. They weren’t begging or threatening, but they were warily watching and waiting for him to say something. Didn’t he know Aziraphale better than that by now? He tried to communicate that with his eyes, but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

Sensing the answer was his responsibility, he answered, “We, ah,” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again, “We’ve been introduced.”

Crowley’s lip twitched ever so slightly into a relieved grin, but it was so quick Aziraphale almost believed it was his imagination. Crowley’s eyes dropped back to the ground and he seemingly conjured his sunglasses from somewhere, slipping them on. Aziraphale’s heart dropped like he’d had a door slammed in his face.

“How glad are we that you guys are finally gonna join the twenty first century? I’ve been saying you need computers for years,” Michael was saying to Raphael.

“Indeed! Thank you, Aziraphale, for the suggestion. We are all grateful,” Raphael replied, grinning one of his dimpled, blindingly white-toothed smiles at him.

But Aziraphale was distracted as Crowley’s head snapped up and Aziraphale felt his eyes staring at him, laser focussed. The glasses may have hidden them, but it didn’t mean Aziraphale couldn’t tell when he was being watched. 

“Why has the seminary not allowed them previously?” Raphael continued.

“Old fuddy duddy clergy are scared of them. I think they reckon they’re the gateway to sin. Stupid old luddites,” Michael griped.

“Michael! Watch your tongue,” Aziraphale gasped, but Raphael just laughed a smooth, deep laugh, while Crowley gave an amused smirk.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that Michael was older than him. She had a tendency to let her mouth get ahead of her mind. Sister Frances would just sigh and despair. There was no teaching her. They’d tried.

“Oh, shush. Raph is cool, aren’t you?”

“I promise I won’t tell a soul. I’m very good at keeping secrets.” Raphael shared a look with Crowley, who blushed. Raphael laughed again, crossing himself.

“See? You’re just too paranoid. Isn’t that right, Crowley?”

Crowley turned to look at her, the red spreading further, until his entire face was flushed.

“Of course, Sister.”

“Well, it’s been swell, fellas. But this nun has nun stuff to do. Zira, I’ll see you Sunday for lunch. 1 o'clock and Frances said, ‘don’t you dare be late or no dessert’.”

He opened to his mouth object, but she was gone with a giggle and a swish of her starched robes.

“I must also get back to my studies. Father, Crowley.” Raphael nodded at them and was gone too, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale in silence. The previously sunny and warm day had suddenly turned darker and cold.

“I also have to go,” Crowley murmured, abruptly turning to walk away.

It had been weeks since their last session.

“Crowley, wait!” He called after him. His voice sounded pathetically plaintive and he cringed. He’d stood from the bench and was almost bizarrely tempted to reach out to him. But he kept his hands clenched at his sides.

But Crowley stopped. He didn’t turn back, but he stopped. It was something.

“What, angel?” The nickname wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t affectionate either. It was flat, expressionless and it hurt.

“I…” He didn’t know what to say. He just knew he didn’t want him to leave. For the first time in over a week, Aziraphale was feeling _something_.

“If you don’t have anything to say, I have to go.”

“Crowley, what did I do wrong?” He blurted. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but it was what he secretly, desperately wanted to know.

“You must be pretty pleased with yourself, huh?” Crowley turned now and even through the glasses, Aziraphale felt the sharp stab of his stare.

“What?” He asked.

“This whole computer thing. It was your idea?” Crowley asked, clearly aware that yes, it was his idea.

Still, he hesitantly answered, “Yes, but…”

“Well, well done. Everyone loves you, worships you even. But not me.”

“Why?” He was confused. What did this have to do with Crowley being mad at him?

“You’re so self-satisfied, aren’t you? You’re a self-righteous prick.”

“No! Why would you say that?” He was offended and angry as well as hurt now. Why was Crowley attacking him?

“All the students are gonna have laptops. But what about those of us who can’t afford it? What then?”

“But your parents..?” He’d heard they were rich. The Archbishop couldn’t be lying about that could he? Why would he lie? 

“They pay for my tuition. To get rid of me. But other than that, they give me nothing. I have nothing. They hate me, remember?”

They’d never said ‘hate’ in their conversation about them before. Crowley had told him his parents didn’t care about him at all, but he’d thought he was just exaggerating. Was it honestly so bad?

“Then how did you buy my Christmas present?” He knew it hadn’t been cheap, since he’d already looked into making the subscription a permanent thing.

“I…” He flushed again, “I had a job in uni and in my gap year. I’ve been living on what I managed to save, between rent, food and clothes.”

Suddenly, Crowley’s torn and faded clothes seemed less like a trendy fashion choice and more like a sign of something he’d missed. Combined with his overly skinny frame and lack of trust, it was something Aziraphale had seen a lot at the shelter. How’d he missed what now seemed so obvious?

“Oh Crowley, you didn’t have to!” He wrung his hands anxiously, still feeling the urge to lay a caring hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Honestly, I didn’t need anything. Let me pay you back.”

Crowley’s anger had disappeared and now he just appeared tired. Every time he confessed, it was like he deflated a little more. Was his tough, cool guy attitude entirely a front? 

“I know you like your charity, but I don’t need it. I’m not a charity case and I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you, my dear. I just want to help.”

Aziraphale felt the phone in his pocket vibrating, but he ignored it. He needed to focus on fixing things with Crowley. It felt like if he didn’t fix it now, he never would, and it felt like that might just be the end of the world.

“Yeah, well. You can’t help everyone.”

“Why not?” He asked. Wasn’t it their job to help people? Make the world a better place and act according to God’s will, that was their mandate.

“Angel,” He sighed. The slight affection had stolen back into the endearment. “We can never save everyone.”

Aziraphale knew logically it was true. Maybe he couldn’t help everyone, but in saving one person, he could create a ripple on the pond.

Crowley was that ripple. He needed to help him. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt in his soul that this was his calling, just as much as being a priest.

“Just let me help you. It’s not pity or charity or guilt. Please, Crowley? Can’t we be friends again?”

“I thought we weren’t friends?”

The guilt of their fight overwhelmed him anew.

“I want to be friends. I think we could be, if you wanted to be?” His heart was in his throat as he waited. 

Crowley was still watching him from behind his glasses. Seconds ticked away without a sound. Slowly, he nodded.

“Alright. Friends.”

He let out a shaky breath with a relieved smile. It would be alright.

* * *

As soon as Crowley had sauntered out of sight, Aziraphale pulled out his phone, that had been buzzing like crazy throughout their conversation. He wasn’t used to getting that many notifications, since he was, by most young people’s metrics, a bit of a luddite. Which was hilarious, given he was the resident IT expert in the seminary. He wasn’t entirely sure how that came about, but he suspected it was because he was the only one who knew what Google was.

4 new messages from Michael. Weird, given she’d only just left him. If it was some type of emergency, she would ring. Though what emergency could’ve emerged in the 5 minutes since she’d left, he wasn’t sure.

‘Yo Z. what’s with the new kid?’

‘What’s the history with u guys?’

‘Should I be worried?’

‘Do I need to do some arse whooping?’

He started to worry. Why was she asking? Had he missed something in the conversation? He’d thought he’d done an OK job of pretending they barely knew each other, but he’d never been a great liar.

‘Why do you ask?’ He messaged back, nervously biting his lip. He hoped that was disinterested enough to not arouse more suspicion in her. But she was worse than him when she got her mind set something. If she thought there was something he was hiding, he’d never hear the end of it.

Luckily, it didn’t take long for his phone to vibrate again. He hadn’t realised he’d been sitting and staring at it, until it lit up and vibrated and scared him. He actually startled. He glanced around and was thankful no one was there to see it.

‘He was staring at you like you’d killed his mum. Did you?’

‘I didn’t. We just don’t get along very well.’

‘Ohhhh. He’s the one Pepper told me about. The demon.’ She'd included an emoji with that one. 

‘He’s not that bad, honestly,’ He replied. He wanted to tell his other friends that he and Crowley were officially friends now – even if it was somewhat tentatively – but he knew that would only prompt more questions he didn’t have answers for. Pepper had already asked why he’d want to be friends with him, given their turbulent beginning. He felt almost protective of their burgeoning relationship, but he didn’t know why. Maybe because Crowley still seemed to want to keep it secret?

Right from the start, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel something towards Crowley. Whether it was annoyance, compassion or whatever he was feeling now, there was always something. Few people made him feel as deeply as this man did and he didn’t know why. Sometimes he hated it and sometimes he was glad for the reminder that he was alive.

Peter was gone, but he wasn’t. He’d been living in a weird bubble since Peter was gone. But not anymore. Peter wouldn’t want him to mourn forever.

‘Whatever you say, angel,’ Came the snarky reply.

He shook his head with a fond, but exasperated sigh.

* * *

Aziraphale’s life returned to normal. He spent time at the homeless shelter, animal shelter, soup kitchen, and both local orphanages. At each, he was greeted with smiles and enthusiasm, making him feel extra guilty for having abandoned it all for so long. Not that anyone was _trying_ to make him feel guilty, he knew they weren’t. They were all simply glad to have him back. He didn’t know how time had gotten away from him so quickly, but he pledged to never let it happen again.

With his life back on track, he floated through the days, feeling lighter and more optimistic than he’d been in years.

He’d even scheduled a session with Crowley. He wasn’t sure whether to class it as a study session or not, since they were friends now. Still, friends studied together, didn’t they? There should be nothing weird about them meeting up to discuss class work or anything else. It wasn't clandestine or anything. 

Yet, as their regularly scheduled time (which was still somehow convenient for both of them, not that he’d been avoiding filling the time. It’d just been a coincidence) approached, he felt himself getting nervous. It was silly, he chastised himself, but there was something nagging at him and while he was anxious, he also couldn’t wait. They always had great conversations and he missed Crowley’s company. He gave him a run for his money, debating and arguing at every turn, even if he was just doing it to get under his skin.

Crowley met him outside their classroom with a smirk. But it was a friendly smirk, not the mocking thing Aziraphale had used to know. He gave him a tentative smile back and they entered. Crowley took his usual desk and Aziraphale hesitated. Where should he sit? Was it weird now they were friends to sit at the teachers desk? Was it weirder to sit beside him?

Crowley looked up at him, clearly unsure why he was just hovering in the doorway and Aziraphale decided that what was weirder than sitting anywhere was just standing there hesitantly. He chose the desk to Crowley’s right and sat down with as much confidence as he could manage. He could feel Crowley’s questioning eyes still following him, but he ignored it, opening his textbook and pulling his notebook from his bag.

“You don’t use your laptop very often outside the library, do you?” Crowley asked.

“Not usually. I prefer to make hand written notes. It helps me remember things more easily if I’ve actually written it down, you see.”

“But you fought for everyone to be allowed computers.”

It wasn’t a question, more thinking out loud, so he didn’t reply. But Crowley’s brow furrowed, and he continued.

“Why then?”

“Because it’s long overdue.” Aziraphale looked away, wishing he’d chosen a seat further away after all. He could feel his face heating. He couldn’t admit he’d done it for Crowley. He wasn’t sure why he had or how Crowley would react, so it was best to keep quiet about it.

But there was something in Crowley’s eyes when he finally met them again that told him that Crowley knew everything he wasn’t saying anyway. He was smiling ever so slightly at him, warm and far more open than Aziraphale was used to. He flushed even more.

“So, Adam and Eve.” Aziraphale changed the subject abruptly and forcefully.

Crowley’s face reset to the normal blank slate in a split second, making Aziraphale wonder if he hadn’t imagined the whole moment just a second before.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell to the book in front of him and he attempted to smooth his own face into one of neutrality.

“I just don’t really understand what they were supposed to do differently.” Crowley shrugged.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from the textbook.

“The big fruit tree. Of course, they were going to eat the fruit. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because God told them not to.” He frowned.

“Yeah, but that’s like someone telling you not to think of an elephant. What do you immediately do?”

Aziraphale scoffed, “It’s hardly the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Came the rebuttal. “Let’s put it another way. Imagine you’re in a room with everything you’ll ever want or need, but there’s only one door in or out. Now someone locks the door. What do you instinctively want to do?”

Aziraphale knew the answer, of course. And it made sense. But he also knew Crowley was just being contrary for the sake of it, as usual.

“I’d stay in the room, personally,” He answered, somewhat defensively. He didn’t mean to be snappish, but Crowley was just trying to rile him. Why couldn’t he just be agreeable for one hour?

“That’s just you, angel. You’re obedient like that. Are you saying there was an apple, or a delicious piece of cake, in front of you right now, that gave you infinite knowledge, the knowledge of _all_ of history, that you wouldn’t eat it?”

Crowley was targeting his weaknesses like a master shooter. Why did he have to know Aziraphale’s vulnerable spots like that? He seemed to know him far too well and it disconcerted him. Still, he wouldn’t let Crowley know he was getting to him. At least, not that he was making him question.

At his glare, Crowley continued, “Talking snake or no talking snake, it’s human nature to want to do the thing you’re told not to. And God should’ve known that, having created humans...”

“He couldn’t control the serpent, being that it was a denizen of Hell.”

“Yeah, but He’s God though, all-seeing, all-knowing. He should’ve seen it coming.”

“It was a test. If He’d tried to prevent it, it wouldn’t’ve been a test.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a strange and impossible test.”

They lapsed into silence. Aziraphale sighed and Crowley looked at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry, angel. I just…”

“It’s OK. None of us can explain God's ineffable ways. Let’s just get a wriggle on with it, shall we?”

They both sat in silence again as they studied, occasionally breaking it to read a passage to each other or point out something interesting. Aziraphale watched Crowley out of the corner of his eye and he could see he was working diligently, rather than wasting time as usual. Every so often their eyes would meet, and they’d awkwardly look away.

Aziraphale didn’t know how to feel. He was a big believer in asking questions and he knew that the bible wasn’t perfect, but Crowley asked questions every session, needling and cynical. Why was he training to be a priest when it seemed like he didn’t believe any of it? But Aziraphale cut off that line of thinking. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea that Crowley was really questioning Him.

“What would you be if you weren’t a priest?” Aziraphale’s mouth asked, without asking permission from his brain.

“Oh.” Crowley paused in his reading and looked up, tilting his head and pondering. “I think I’d like to be a gardener or landscaper or something. Something with plants, I think,” He finally answered.

“Oh really?” Now he thought about it, he remembered seeing some pot plants on Crowley’s windowsill when he’d gone to drag him to class. The memory had him fighting a blush.

“I’m not very good with people and feelings. I’m much better with plants. People in general are great. Each person specifically…” He made a disgusted face.

They really were completely different. But like the saying said, opposites attract. Not that Aziraphale was attracted to him. He blushed at the very thought. Crowley was attractive. In a different way than either the classical looks of Raphael or the nerd chic of Newt, but he was objectively handsome, in a strange and mysterious way. It was only normal that Aziraphale would notice, wasn’t it? He could appreciate physical beauty without it being weird. So why was his heart beating so fast? Why did the memory of a half-naked Crowley cause him to feel things he could barely describe? 

He cleared his throat and gave him a weak smile.

“Well, I hope the church you’re assigned to has a nice garden you can tend,” He said, trying not to sound choked or husky.

“Me too.” Crowley smiled. “What about you?”

“Maybe run a library or a bookstore.” He did love being surrounded by books.

"Why am I not surprised?" Crowley laughed. It was a nice laugh. 

They moved on, relaxing back into their routines as if they'd never stopped. 

* * *

Aziraphale found his way to church the next Friday midday. He knew it was a quiet time in the church, everyone busy elsewhere, doing their priestly duties. He liked to take advantage of the quiet for some peaceful reflection.

He made his way to the front, lighting two candles, one for Peter and another for Sister Agnes, before he knelt at the front pews. Unlike when there were other people around, he didn’t bother with the pomp and ceremony. He didn’t recite Latin or use his rosary, simply bowing his head and praying.

After about ten minutes of praying for the health of his friends and family, he stood and, knowing it was John’s turn in the confessional, he decided he’d confess while he was there. It had been a shamefully long time. Counting back in his mind, he was dismayed to realise he hadn’t confessed in over a month. He could hear John’s disappointment already.

But as he neared the booth, he realised it was already occupied. And he knew, before he even heard the voice, who it would be. Why were he and Crowley so inexplicably tied together?

And he didn’t mean to overhear. He really didn’t. But the booth wasn’t exactly soundproof, and Crowley sounded upset. Their voices were muffled, but easily distinguishable.

“Father, I’ve fallen in love,” Crowley sobbed.

Aziraphale felt nauseous all of a sudden.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession, a brush with disaster and a present.

It had obviously progressed since he’d confessed to Aziraphale. Now Crowley was talking of love? When it was simple attraction, that was one thing, but to hear him talk of love… It made Aziraphale’s heart clench painfully. Who was it? Who could possibly have found their way into his heart, when not even Aziraphale, who’d been trying so hard, had been able to reach him? Did they know? Was it reciprocated?

“And you’re upset by this?” John asked kindly.

“Of course! I’m going to be a priest. I can’t fall in love.”

“Yes, you can, my child. To fall in love is incredibly human and you are human, whether you serve God or not.”

“But what do I do, Father? How do I stop it?”

“I’ve been in love. And there’s nothing more impossible than trying not to love someone, when they’re all you can think about and you feel like you’ll die without them.”

Aziraphale hadn’t known that John had been in love. But he was human. They all were. The pain in his voice was so agonised that Aziraphale wanted to fall to his knees in prayer again. Poor John! And poor Crowley, if he was feeling even a portion of what John was. Aziraphale’s heart ached like he’d lost Peter all over again.

“But I can’t love them, Father. It’s wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. Love – true love – is never wrong. Love is a gift from God.”

John’s words echoed his own to that young, vulnerable girl at the shelter. True love was never wrong. That nagging feeling was back, like his brain was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t work out what.

“And God cannot judge you for loving, so long as your love for Him remains too, even if you choose not to become a priest. The Church may not be happy with you, but you must be happy in your decisions. And you’re lucky. You’re young and you get to make the choice. You can leave the seminary if you want to. You’re not yet ordained.”

Archbishop Gabriel and Father Michael’s words echoed in Aziraphale’s mind. Crowley could leave. Wasn’t what they’d all wanted? Even Crowley seemed like he wanted to go. But Aziraphale didn’t. Not anymore. His life had been boring until Crowley had sauntered in and made himself comfortable. He wanted him to stay. But what could he do? Crowley didn’t seem to care much for his opinion, so trying to convince him seemed like a fool’s errand.

But there had to be something he could do to make him stay here with him.

It was selfish, but he wanted him to stay.

“But if I leave, I’ll be leaving them too. And I don’t think I can do that, Father.” Crowley’s sobs were almost more than Aziraphale could bear.

“Then you have to be content to love them from afar. It’s hard, but it’s all you can do.”

Aziraphale heard the lived experience behind the words and realised that all these years, John had loved and been unable to show it. Who was she, this woman who he loved? Was it a nun, like Crowley’s was? Or was it..? That young girl, who loved another woman...

His mind in disarray, Aziraphale missed John assigning Crowley his prayers and Aziraphale scrambled to hide as they said their amens. He didn’t want Crowley thinking he was snooping or following him. He watched silently as Crowley exited the booth, still wiping his eyes. They were red rimmed, and he looked deflated. His usual confident was gone without a trace. He sighed heavily and left, but not before he stood in the church for a long moment, looking around, and taking it in like it was the first – or last – time.

Aziraphale felt the desire rise to go to him and comfort him, but he knew Crowley wouldn’t accept it. He clearly didn’t want Aziraphale seeing his weakness, even if he knew all Aziraphale’s. How did Crowley see through him so easily when he couldn’t read Crowley at all?

Aziraphale waited until Crowley was gone and then followed. He needed some time alone.

He didn’t see John watching him pensively.

* * *

He was studying outside again. It was overcast and dreary, but then again, it was London. If he never went outside when it was cloudy, he’d be a hermit. He still spent much of his time in the library, but he found more and more that it lacked the comfort it used to. It had nothing to do with the fact Crowley hadn’t been around as much.

He knew it was going to rain, but for now, while it was still warmish and dry, he sat on the bench, reading – and listening to – a book on modern theology. It was interesting, reading how religion and the practicing of it had changed over time. He idly wondered what Crowley’s opinion on some of the points would be. He made a mental note to bring it up next time they met. He could almost hear them debating already and it made him smile, before he caught himself and schooled his face back into a neutral expression and focussed back on the book.

By the time the storm hit, he was so engrossed and the volume so high, he didn’t hear the first patter of droplets. He felt a huge drop on his head, prompting him to look up, surprised. A drop landed on his nose, making him give an undignified and unnaturally high-pitched squeal.

The lightning strike and thunder were deafening, but he faintly heard someone yelling, pulling him up off the bench and rushing him somewhere. He wasn’t sure his feet touched the ground at all. When his sight and hearing came back, he saw a wild-eyed Crowley, holding his shoulders and saying “breathe, angel, just breathe,” over and over.

He glanced back into the courtyard and saw a tree had been struck, now on fire, despite the raging downpour. The tree was less than 10 feet from where he’d been sitting. He couldn’t believe his eyes and blinked at it dumbly until he realised his heart was racing and he focussed on calming himself down. He was safe. He was dry. He was alive.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both breathing heavily, but slowing down and returning to normal.

“Oh no!” He exclaimed. “My book, my bag! They’ll be soaked! Ruined!” Tears sprung to his eyes and he began to panic anew.

“Don't worry, angel,” Crowley smiled. His hair was dripping, and he looked about as shocked as Aziraphale felt, but out from beneath his rain covered leather jacket, he pulled the book. He gestured with it to his feet, where a wet, but not entirely soaked bag, sat.

“I grabbed them for you.” He gave a crooked smile, so genuine and warm. As warm as his breath, that washed over Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed how close they’d been standing – practically pressed together – or that Crowley still held one of his shoulders, grounding him. Aziraphale looked at him, shocked. He’s saved him. And his book.

“You saved me,” He said breathlessly.

“Nah, I just stopped you getting wet is all.” He took the hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder, leaving him feeling cold and bereft, and ran it self-consciously through his hair, leaving it sticking up and messy. Droplets sprayed from it in all directions. His cheeks were red, whether from the adrenaline or something else, Aziraphale couldn’t tell.

Butterflies were ramming themselves against his insides with reckless abandon and he wanted to feel those hands on him again. He wanted to run his fingers through the ridiculously red hair and smooth it down. Or maybe mess it up more. He wasn’t sure.

But more than that, he wanted to lean in and kiss him. He found himself staring at his lips and licking his own. He’d never felt anything like it before. And it scared him.

“I’ve gotta go,” He said, grabbing the book and the bag and running the opposite way. He felt Crowley’s eyes following him, but he didn’t dare look back.

What was happening to him?

* * *

Aziraphale ran straight to his room and slammed the door, locking it and collapsing against it with the biggest sigh his aching lungs could give.

He’d had never been this unsure of himself. He’d never been particularly confident, but he’d thought that, at the least, he knew his own feelings. Even if they were self-loathing and fear, at the very least, he knew what they were and could deal with them accordingly.

But Crowley did things to him. He made him _feel_. He’d made him angrier than he’d ever been before, more annoyed, more challenged and more confused...

Aziraphale wasn’t gay. Or, at least, he’d never really thought about it? He’d never been a particularly sexual person. He was romantic, in a vague and general sense, he supposed. He liked poetry and flowers, sunsets and walks along rivers. It was romantic, but it wasn’t _romantic_.

He’d met many people from all letters of the LGBTIQA+ spectrum and yet, he’d never considered himself as a member. They existed, but sort of outside his experience. They were, by certain clergy members decree, kept outside the Church (Not that he agreed with Gabriel on that, of course). And the Church was Aziraphale’s life. When he was the leader of his own flock, no person would be shunned, no matter their gender, orientation, race, or anything else.

But this feeling he felt for Crowley... This burning that he’d thought was anger or annoyance, he saw now was attraction. Aziraphale knew Anathema was beautiful. He knew Raphael was handsome. But in a detached, subjective kind of way. Crowley though... He got Aziraphale’s heart racing. And if that’s all it was, it wouldn’t matter. Aziraphale was a priest and had discipline to spare. He could ignore the heating of his blood and bury it. That would be easy.

But the problem was, he _liked_ Crowley. He wanted to be around him all the time. If someone’d told him even a month ago that he would like Crowley, he’d have thought them insane. But he liked how he challenged him. He liked the things they differed and fought on. And the things they agreed on and had in common. He’d come to enjoy his company, so much their sessions had become the highlight of his week, more than the shelter, or lunch with Frances or Michael. More than anything.

He hadn’t noticed it. Crowley had stormed into his life, like a bolt of lightning, but the evolution of feeling had happened so gradually, he didn’t know when he’d started to feel these feelings. And while the realisation of these feelings had come from nowhere, he couldn’t say the same for the feelings themselves. They’d been growing since the very beginning. And he couldn’t deny them, as much as he wanted to. How hadn’t he noticed before?

But Crowley was in love with someone else. That was fine. Aziraphale couldn’t act on his feelings anyway. So, it was best no one ever know what he felt. He and Crowley would be friends and that was it. It would hurt, but it was what he needed to do.

More than anything though, he needed Crowley to stay. Regardless of the true depth and direction his emotions had taken, Crowley was his friend and he wanted him around. But what could he do to make him stay?

A sudden bolt of inspiration struck.

* * *

“Aziraphale!” Came a terrified cry from across the courtyard.

The tree that had been struck had been removed and it looked to the casual passer-by as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened there the day before. But Aziraphale knew his brush with death had been the talking point of the seminary – and beyond. He’d had students he’d never seen before asking him about what had happened. He’d always hated attention, and this was even worse than normal. Half of them treated him like he was some kind of messiah and the other half like God himself had tried to smite him down.

Given the new feelings he was struggling with, he wasn’t convinced himself that it wasn’t some kind of sign. But it had been the sign that had shown him his feelings, not discouraged them. He’d ask for another sign in his nightly or morning prayers, but he feared what might happen next. If that sign hadn’t been direct enough, he shuddered to think what might be _more_ direct.

So, he didn’t stop when he heard his name being called.

“Aziraphale, you stop right this instant!”

That halted him in his tracks.

“Yes, Reverend Mother?” He greeted Frances. The few students who’d been warily watching him scattered like flies.

“Don't ‘Reverend Mother' me! You nearly got hit by lightning!” She was still being far too loud for comfort. She’d stormed right up to him and seized his face in her hands, inspecting it to make sure he was ok. He felt his face heating up beneath her palms.

“No, I didn’t. I’m fine. A tree got hit. I just happened to be near the tree.”

She scoffed, “I’ll be the judge of that, young man.”

He was tempted to take her hands and pry them off his head, but he knew she’d just be annoyed further and that wasn’t something he needed to deal with. Between being almost hit by lightning and discovering he was incredibly attracted to Crowley, he’d had an emotional and sleepless 24 hours. It was better to just submit to her prodding and poking and it’d be over and done with quicker. He didn’t have to like it though.

“Frances, honestly, I’m alright. One of the students managed to pull me out of harm’s way before I could get hurt.”

“That young Crowley fellow, wasn’t it?” She was frowning.

“Yes?”

“I haven’t heard great things about him, but if he protected you…”

“He’s not that bad,” He argued. He was getting fed up with having to defend him to all and sundry. Why didn’t anyone see the same Crowley he’d come to know?

Crowley was no more a demon than he was an angel. 

“Yes, well.” Content he was alive and well, she dropped her hands from his face. But he stern frown stayed. 

He sighed. How could he convince them Crowley was worthy of respect and friendship and love? He cut off that thought as he looked away from Frances, afraid she might see the truth in his eyes.

“I want you staying inside from now on. Why weren’t you in the library anyway? Michael said she’s seen you in the courtyard a lot recently and while I’m glad you’re getting fresh air, I’d prefer you were safe indoors…”

He let her ramble on as his eyes scanned the courtyard behind her. He saw Crowley wander past, eyes glued to his phone. How he managed to read and not run into anything was something the clumsy Aziraphale couldn’t understand.

Just as he noticed him, Crowley looked up and their eyes locked. Crowley’d stopped walking and his hand lifted a few inches as if to wave, then fell uselessly back to his side. He contented himself with a small smile and nod instead, which Aziraphale found himself returning. His cheeks were warming again.

Frances had halted her rant, and turned to look at what had caught his attention.

“Is that him?” She asked.

“Yes. That’s him.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I can see what John means,” She mused, not pausing long enough for Aziraphale to asks what she meant. “Perhaps there’s something we can do to show him our gratitude.”

“It’s funny you should say that.”

* * *

‘Hey Newt, May I please call you?’

He chewed on his lip as he waited. He knew Newt was probably busy. He couldn’t expect him to just be available. Still, he kept one eye on the phone as he went about scanning in and typing up another ancient book.

‘sure’, came the reply after only 5 minutes, that seemed like 50. He grabbed his phone so quickly he almost dropped it. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Hi Newt!” He greeted. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so chipper, but he was excited, and he couldn’t stop himself. He’d had, what he humbly thought, was a brilliant idea.

“Hey,” Came the significantly less enthusiastic reply, “What’s up?”

He didn’t let Newt’s laconic greeting dampen his eagerness. Newt wasn't the most rambunctious or demonstrative guy.

“I have a few computer questions.”

“And you’re asking me?” He sounded shocked.

“You work in IT.”

“Yeah. But I’m not very good at it.”

“Well, you’re better than me, so can you help?”

“I can try,” He still sounded hesitant, but it was good enough for Aziraphale.

“If I wanted to buy a relatively cheap second-hand laptop, where do you suggest I go?” His feelings had disturbed him, so he was turning his emotions into action.

“Oh. Well, there’s pawn shops and eBay and stuff. But it’s hard to know if it’s in good condition or works well if you buy it online though.”

“Would you be willing to go with me to find one? I want one sooner, rather than later.”

“Sure.”

Two hours later, second-hand laptop procured, Aziraphale arrived back at the seminary. They had, he thought, done a pretty good job. They’d found a laptop, only a few years old and only a few weeks’ worth of his meagre pay, supplemented with some funds donated by Frances as thanks. Aziraphale hadn’t told her why Crowley needed a laptop or why he couldn’t afford one. She clearly had questions, but when he didn’t elaborate, she didn’t push. She trusted him and his judgement.

The second-hand laptop wasn’t too badly damaged, only a few minor scratches on the outside and a battery that didn’t last as long as it used to. It was smaller than the one he’d been given by the Church, but it would suit his purpose just fine. Crowley was right, he barely used it for anything but filing and typing texts and that didn’t require much power or style.

But he wanted Crowley to have a better laptop, one he could use for whatever he wanted – within reason. He didn’t need to think about Crowley looking up less than savoury sites. He didn’t need to think about Crowley quite as much as he was these days, but his mind wandered to him and the desire to keep him around, even if he knew now that he was getting too close. That lightning had – metaphorically – struck him and he felt things he’d never felt before.

Hence the laptop. He just needed a reason to give it to Crowley, without it looking like charity…

* * *

He’d thought about it for almost a week and still had not a single clue as to how to give Crowley the laptop without it being weird. But he had to do it. There was no point waiting and it wouldn’t get any less awkward.

He showed up to their next session with a heavy, and new – since the old one had been beyond saving – bag. It contained both laptops, their chargers and wireless mouses for them, since Aziraphale couldn’t stand using the trackpad and he could only assume Crowley was the same. He might be wrong, but he’d walked past a store that sold them and hadn’t been able to stop himself.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself a lot recently.

“Hey, angel. You’re looking good. Got a hot date later?” Crowley greeted him outside the door again. He was always there, propped up against the wall like he’d fall over without its support.

“Oh, this?” He looked down at his own outfit, as if surprised to see it. He’d forgone the usual bowtie, since the weather was warming up, and he was wearing a shirt Anathema had bought him for his birthday. It was a light blue polo with a tiny R2-D2 on the breast. Anathema had explained the purchase with a ‘ _it’s cute and it matches your eyes_.’ Thus far, he’d avoided wearing it for several reasons, not the least of which that it was nerdy and likely to get him laughed at. And it showed more of his untoned and chubby arms than he felt very comfortable with. But he’d just felt like today was the day. He couldn’t explain why, just that it’d felt right.

“I like the R2 on it. Really cute.”

He hadn’t picked Crowley as a Star Wars fan, but somehow he wasn’t as surprised as he thought he should be. Maybe Crowley wasn’t as ‘cool’ as he seemed.

“And it’s good to see you less formal. It suits you.”

Crowley was looking at him weirdly and Aziraphale flinched. He didn’t sound sarcastic or mocking, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. And the likelihood of Crowley complimenting him – or even what sounded suspiciously close to flirting – was so low it was laughable. So that’s what he did. He giggled nervously.

Something changed in Crowley’s eyes, but before he could get a good look, he’d turned away and was walking into the room.

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath and followed a second later.

“Do you mind if I use my laptop?” He asked. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth.

Crowley nodded impassively. He was frowning now though, clearly remembering and perhaps thinking the same words he’d said by the bench after Michael and Raphael had left. If only he knew.

Aziraphale pulled the new, second-hand one out of the bag and sat it on the desk he was now using, next to Crowley’s.

Crowley’s brow furrowed as he looked at the clearly different laptop to the one he’d seen Aziraphale use a million times before.

Aziraphale pulled out the second, bigger and newer laptop that he’d been given by the Church. This, he held out hesitantly towards Crowley.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offering and an offer. Bonus jealousy from both sides.

Crowley looked back and forth from the proffered laptop to Aziraphale, looking unsure, even a little timid. Crowley had never seemed timid before and it sat strangely on his face, making him seem suddenly younger. 

“What?”

“I have a spare.” Aziraphale tried to act as casual as possible, but he knew it wasn’t working. He was many things, but cool and suave weren't amongst them. 

Crowley opened his mouth with a sharp breath, but Aziraphale cut him off, rambling.

“It’s not charity. You’ll use the Church one, so it’s not like I can actually give it to you or anything. It's just a loan. And you’re entitled to use it as much as I am, as a student. So don’t worry. Just don’t tell the Archbishop, alright?” He wasn’t meeting Crowley’s eyes and his arm was beginning to ache from holding the laptop out towards him. He almost sighed in relief when Crowley gingerly took it, holding it as if it were precious or perhaps a bomb that would explode if he moved too suddenly or said the wrong thing.

“Should I say thank you?” His usually loud, confident voice was small and gentle. It made Aziraphale’s stomach flutter.

“Better not.” He cleared his throat and gave him a weak smile, looking over his shoulder at the cityscape. He couldn’t help but notice how the light through the window lit up Crowley’s red hair, almost like a red halo. His cheeks too, were ever so slightly lit with red.

“I need to thank you somehow. I can pay you back...”

But Aziraphale waved it off. He knew Crowley didn’t have enough.

“Maybe one day, but not now.”

“Alright,” He replied, running his hand reverently over the laptop. He had a slight smile, so small that anyone who didn't know him as well as Aziraphale did would miss it. Even Aziraphale wondered if it was truly there. 

Aziraphale looked away, blushing. His thoughts weren’t behaving themselves again.

“Right! On with this essay,” He exclaimed a little too loudly, a little too suddenly.

They continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened. But occasionally, he’d hear the clicking of the keyboard stop and he’d look over to see Crowley giving him a strange look. He’d meet his eyes for a second, as if trying to figure something out, before he’d go back to working.

Aziraphale spent most of the time blushing and feeling too aware of every look and every movement.

He sighed a breath of relief when it was over. And yet, he wanted to see him again. What exquisite agony!

* * *

The rest of the year passed by in a blur. Aziraphale and Crowley continued to spend time together, which slowly became less and less about study and more about talking. Crowley, with the use of the ‘borrowed’ laptop was introducing Aziraphale to the world of memes and social media. Aziraphale wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t mind leaning over to look at the screen as Crowley laughed at something stupid, almost pressed together. He hated being so close and not being able to touch, but it was the most he could ever have.

Before he knew what was happening, it had been almost an entire year since Crowley had swept into his life. It felt like years and only a day all at once.

“The last day of term is tomorrow,” Crowley said, leaning back on his chair, feet up on the desk.

Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to point that out, scared that Crowley would put off the session, since they didn’t have to study. But he hadn’t, so Aziraphale had turned up, hopeful with notebook and laptop in tow, keeping up the appearance. But he hadn’t touched them.

“And the students were saying they all go out and celebrate, at the end of the year.” The year-end celebration was a time-honoured tradition. All the students, first year to last, all packed into a nearby dingy pub - the rather hilariously named Devil’s Inn - and drank until they couldn’t stand. It was a chance to not be ‘priests-in-training’ for one night and just be like any other students, enjoying the end of a hard year of work. It was an ‘unofficial’ tradition, that the Archbishop had outlawed, but that didn’t stop anyone.

Except Aziraphale, who’d skip the thing his entire time at the seminary. Getting drunk had never been his favourite pastime, which his fellow students had understood. They’d never pressured him to join, which he’d appreciated. He didn’t mind a drink, of course, but he tended to drink with dinner or in the evenings with a good book. Spirits and beer weren’t to his taste. Nor was fraternising with the students.

“Are you going to go?” Crowley asked, not looking at him, but scrolling on his phone, casually.

“Oh, no. It’s for the students. I don’t think they’d appreciate an old fuddy-duddy like me ruining their fun.” He gave a self-deprecating giggle.

“You do realise you’re the same age as most of the graduating class, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m not part of the graduating class.”

“Obviously,” He drawled with a familiar eye-roll. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had taken offense it. 

He’d wondered for so long he finally cracked and had to ask, “How old are you, my dear?” 

“I’m 22. Why?”

He was younger than he’d first assumed. He must’ve only been 21 when he arrived at the seminary. That was unusually young for a student. Of course, Aziraphale’d been younger, but he was definitely not the standard. Apparently, they had that in common.

“You graduated early?”

“Yeah, I started uni a few years early,” He shrugged.

Given that he’d graduated top of his class, it was doubly as impressive. Of course, during the course of their arrangement and friendship, he’d discovered exactly how razor sharp his mind was. He didn’t always apply it, slacking off more than he should, but he still achieved more than most people’s full effort. It was amazing. But that was just Crowley. He was a remarkable man.

“So, I guess that means you’re not coming to the pub?” Crowley was looking at him, eyes wide and imploring.

Aziraphale felt himself softening. What was the harm in going? He wouldn’t even have to drink. He could be in and out in ten minutes, if he really hated it. 

“Why not?”

* * *

“You can’t wear that,” Michael objected.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how she’d insinuated herself into helping him get ready for the party, but there she was, sitting on his tiny bed and judging him ruthlessly and without a shred of mercy.

“What’s wrong with this?” He looked down at his outfit. He’d dropped the bowtie and while he was wearing a pair of his usual trousers, he’d paired his button up light blue shirt with a warm and cosy grey cardigan. It was far more casual than he usually wore. Not as casual as his R2-D2 polo shirt, but Crowley’d already seen that, so he couldn’t wear it again. Of course, the excuse he’d told Michael was it was too cold for a polo shirt.

“Listen, brother,” She called him brother when she wanted to annoy him, since he only called her Sister in public, or when she was being particularly rowdy. “You might act like a 6,000-year-old dinosaur, but you are actually a young and attractive man. It wouldn’t kill you to act like it every once in a while.”

“How exactly do you propose I do that?”

“Maybe spend some time with your friends. Stop studying or volunteering every second of every day and actually live life.”

“I have friends! We hang out.” He hung out with Crowley as often as he could. But he wasn't going to tell Michael that. 

“Pep says she’s barely seen you for months, outside of volunteering.”

He cursed ever introducing them. They were bad influences on each other. And they made his life a nightmare when they ganged up on him. He knew it came from a place of love – he did – but it didn’t make it any less annoying.

“I’ve been busy,” He grumbled.

“I know you have, but you can’t sulk forever. Even John isn’t sulking, and he has far more reason to than you do.”

Just like with Pepper, he didn’t correct her assumption his strange behaviour was solely due to losing Peter. He couldn’t tell them the truth, especially now he knew his feelings for Crowley weren’t as strictly platonic as he’d thought. He didn’t need anybody asking questions. Though, he did wish there was someone he could talk to. Peter would’ve been his first choice. And of course, that thought still hurt - that his father figure wasn't there to guide him anymore. Letting everyone believe that was what was causing him pain wasn't completely a lie. Sure, the grief wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been, but it still struck him sometimes, leaving him breathless and bereft. He missed him.

But he had to keep himself busy and not think too much about it. A party was the perfect excuse to embrace the present. And see Crowley. 

“What should I wear then, oh wise fashion guru?” He asked sarcastically, crossing his arms.

She rolled inelegantly off the bed and stood in front of his obsessively neat wardrobe, hands on hips, surveying her options. She sighed. He tried not to be too offended by that.

“Alright, how about this?” She pulled a blue and black checked shirt from the rack and held it up appraisingly. It was another present, this time one from Frances.

“I don’t really like wearing patterns. They can be a tad garish.”

She gave him an unimpressed look and sighed, “Z, wear the goddamn shirt. Go crazy for once. Just once. I dare you.”

He took it from her, critically assessing it. It was smaller than he’d like. He must’ve gained weight since he'd been gifted it. He looked at Michael, appealing, but she just shook her head. Knowing he was not going to be able to argue, he changed into it. It was a bit of a squeeze, buttoning over his belly, but it wasn’t in danger of exploding open, so long as he didn’t eat too much. But this wasn’t a meal type outing. It was a drinking, drinking and more drinking outing and he’d already had dinner in preparation. He knew never to drink on an empty stomach. Not that he planned on drinking. He was a senior in the Church community. He had to set a good example. 

“There, isn’t that better?” She said. She grabbed his arms and undid the cuffs, artfully folding them up. He went to tuck the shirt in, but she slapped his hands away. “Now, about those trousers.”

“What’s wrong with them?” He pouted.

She just laughed.

Ten minutes later, he was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans he’d forgotten he owned, and some shoes Michael had borrowed from Raphael. He felt ridiculous, but Michael was looking at him as if she’d never seen him before, giving him a thoroughly unnecessary wolf-whistle and Raphael had given him a massive grin and a thumbs up. He’d narrowly avoided blushing.

“Now, to do something with your hair.” She grinned manically.

He swallowed loudly.

She described the look as ‘artfully tousled’. He wasn’t sold and thought it just looked more of a rat’s nest than usual, but she seemed happy, so he stopped himself from fixing it. It wouldn’t kill him to be a little unkempt for one night. She dragged him in front of the mirror as if presenting him to an audience. He saw his own eyes widen comically. He looked… Good? Not bad, anyway. He looked almost young and hip. 

“Alright,” She said, giving him a hug, “Go and have a good time. That’s an order.”

* * *

He arrived at the pub early. He knew it wasn’t fashionable to turn up on time, but he was too nervous to sit around and wait. He tried to stroll leisurely, but his anxiety had made his feet move faster and faster. When he got there, it was positively deserted. Not a single student in sight. His stomach flipped and he hesitated in the doorway, unsure whether to continue in, or abandon the endeavour entirely. Before he could make up his mind, he was startled by voices behind him.

“Father Aziraphale!” Adam greeted with his customary grin. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh. I was invited. I thought I’d come and celebrate a successful year with everyone.”

“Well, come on then. Don’t just stand there! Let’s get some drinks,” Adam ushered him, along with Brian and Wensleydale towards the bar. “Four shots of vodka please,” He requested, ignoring the three voices of protest. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

The shot stung his throat and went straight to his head. It took every ounce of self-control not to cough and splutter. He didn’t want to seem weak in front of the students. It was hard enough earning their respect without being labelled a lightweight.

Adam grabbed a couple of tables, pushing them together and arranging them around it to his satisfaction. They’d ordered regular drinks now – along with another round of shots. The other three were nursing beers, ciders and spirits, while Aziraphale had ordered a wine. His decision to not drink was out the window now, so he may as well have one, even if he still wasn’t planning on getting drunk.

Without realising, the pub had started to fill up. Not just with students, as there were civilians there too. But soon, the tables were filling up and Aziraphale found himself glancing around every few seconds, expecting Crowley to appear, but he didn’t. Time ticked on and he still hadn’t arrived. He tired not to worry. 

Unexpectedly, a cheer went up from the entire table as Raphael walked in, smiling broadly, with a smirking Crowley in tow. Raphael was one of the ‘graduating’ students, and therefore a guest of honour. He was also the most popular student, which Aziraphale could understand. Raphael couldn't help but make friends. Why Crowley was so universally disliked, that was something he couldn’t reckon with. Sure, he seemed a bit rude, sarcastic, judge-y and mean, but he wasn’t really. He was actually very sweet and nice. But he knew from experience if he said anything of the sort to Crowley, he’d deny it until he was blue in the face. It wouldn’t make it any less true though.

Crowley whispered something to Raphael, which made him give a sudden and booming laugh. Aziraphale squashed the ugly emotion it evoked in him.

Crowley made his way to the bar, while Raphael greeted everyone at the table. Once he'd done the rounds, he flopped into the chair next to Aziraphale and smiled at him.

“How are you, my friend?” Raphael asked.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d ever really thought of them as friends, as much as he admired, respect and genuinely liked Raphael. But then, it seemed his barometer for friendship was a little bit different than most people’s.

“I’m good. Are you excited to be ordained tomorrow?”

He’d never understood why the grads decided to go out and get horrifically drunk the night before they were to be ordained. It was not just a regular graduation ceremony. It was a religious and spiritual ritual, that pledged your life to God. Why would they want to be hungover? His classmates had argued it was their last night of ‘freedom’, but he knew it was an excuse. The ceremony wasn’t what really made someone a priest. It was how one lived their life. It wasn’t that one day they hadn’t dedicated their life and the next they had. The entire point of the seminary was the process of becoming a priest, day by day. The ordination was the culmination and next step, not the beginning or the end. Getting drunk the night before seemed completely antithetical to behaving like a priest should. 

“I am! I am very excited indeed. I haven’t been assigned a parish yet, but I hope to sometime soon.”

Aziraphale was happy for him. Envious, but happy. Raphael deserved everything he wanted. Didn’t he?

A parish of his own had been everything Aziraphale had wanted only a year ago. Now, he realised he hadn’t thought about it in many months. And the thought of leaving the seminary, of leaving...

Crowley suddenly appeared behind them and handed Raphael some cocktail or other. It was pink and fruity, with a piece of strawberry hanging precariously off the side. Raphael laughed as Crowley presented it to him.

“What is this?”

“I thought it suited you, that’s all.”

Aziraphale recognised the teasing tone. He'd heard it often enough. It was the teasing – maybe flirting? – tone Aziraphale hoped was only his. Apparently Crowley was like that with all his friends.

Raphael was laughing, openly and easily.

The ugly feeling was clawing its way through Aziraphale’s chest, but he shut it out again.

“Where am I going to sit?” Crowley asked, looking pointedly at Raphael, who shook his head fondly.

“You can sit here, I was just saying hello to Aziraphale.”

“No, you don’t have to leave,” Crowley quickly replied. He looked almost panicked.

“I have to make the rounds and speak to all the other people. I shall be back.” He stood and wandered off, quickly finding another group to talk to. But that never seemed to be an issue for him.

Crowley sat down and quietly sipped as his own drink.

“What’re you drinking?” Aziraphale asked, looking at the regular glass and clear contents. Vodka and tonic? 

“Lemonade.” At Aziraphale’s surprised look, he shrugged, “I didn’t feel like drinking. I’m not a big drinker.”

“Really?”

“My family are teetotal. Alcohol wasn’t around and then I was at university, I was still too young and I didn’t really have anyone to drink with.” He was looking around the pub, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. His eyes fell on his classmates, the three of whom had gotten along immediately. Crowley didn’t fit in with them, even after a year together. 

“Well, I’m not much of a drinker, but we could occasionally have a drink, if you want,” He found himself suggesting. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now on his second glass of wine, he was feeling a little looser than usual. The shots had given him a bit of a head start.

“You’re not a drinker, angel? Then it must’ve been another blond-haired, blue-eyed, drunk as fuck priest I helped up the stairs on New Year’s.”

Aziraphale blushed. He had been rather drunk. But not enough that he didn’t remember how kind Crowley’d been. He’d held him steady when the world was spinning. And he’d done the same emotionally when Peter had passed.

“I apologise for my behaviour -” He began.

Crowley waved him off.

“Don’t apologise. It was New Year’s and you’d just lost somebody important to you. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

A tiny voice in his head whispered, ‘ _The perfect Raphael wouldn’t_.’ He swallowed the bitterness back.

“Thank you,” He smiled at him hesitantly.

Crowley looked incredibly uncomfortable with the thanks, but thankfully didn’t argue.

“So, you’re looking casual tonight,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale felt himself blushing and he played with the rolled-up cuffs, smoothing them down. It was a soft shirt, he had to admit. He just didn’t feel comfortable being so exposed, shirt tight and showing off his softness. Though, he liked the way Crowley was looking at him. Almost as if...

“Michael dressed me,” He blurted.

“Father Michael?” Crowley's eyebrows had almost crawled into his hairline.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the laugh that exploded out of him with extreme force. The pub seemed to have become dead silent, everyone turned towards them.

“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before,” Crowley commented, once Aziraphale’s blush and people’s attention had disappeared.

“I don’t...” He didn’t know what to say exactly. He didn’t laugh much. Not around the students at least. He laughed with Pepper, Anathema and Newt. He laughed with Michael and Frances. But in the seminary, he kept to himself. Much like Crowley.

No one made him laugh like Crowley did.

“Why would Father Michael dress you?”

“I meant Sister Michael.”

“Oh. You two are close, huh?” He asked, swirling his drink around his glass, watching it as if it were fascinating.

“She’s like a sister to me.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to laugh.

“She’s like a Sister to everyone, angel,” He managed between chuckles.

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale grumbled with a grin.

“Yeah, I do.” Crowley sat smiling warmly at him, staring into his eyes.

Aziraphale wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him how much he meant to him, but as he opened his mouth, Crowley glanced away.

“Antoni, amante, I bought you a drink,” Raphael interrupted, appearing behind them. He handed Crowley a bright green cocktail. It looked disgusting.

“An appletini? How apt,” Crowley laughed.

“An apple from the garden of Eden,” Raphael replied.

Aziraphale felt like he’d missed something, though maybe it was because his head felt fuzzy and his limbs tingled. He blinked, but his eyesight remained blurred. Maybe he needed new glasses, he mused.

“And for you, angel, another glass.”

Another glass of wine was pushed into his hand as the one he’d been clutching was pried away.

"Don't let me interrupt," Raphael said, smiling at Crowley conspiratorially, before he disappeared into the crowd again, as quickly as he’d come.

“So, one year down,” Crowley broke the silence that had fallen between them. He took a sip of the cocktail and winced. 

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself.

“I’m guessing a lot of people lost that bet, didn’t they?” He laughed bitterly.

“How did you know? I mean, I don’t know there were bets, per se, but no one thought...” He cut himself off, brain finally catching up to his mouth.

“Only you could use phrases like ‘per se’ when you’re pissed.”

“I’m not drunk,” He objected. But he knew it was a lie. He just hoped no one else knew that. But by the way Crowley laughed, he knew he, at least, could see through him. But he always had.

“Whatever you say, angel.”

They lapsed into silence, both sipping their drinks. The sound around them barely touched them, as if they were in their own bubble.

“I have to tell you –“

“Crowley!” A voice yelled from across the bar.

They both looked up to see Adam grinning at them. Brian and Wensleydale flanked him, as usual.

“Come play pool with us?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale in askance. He wanted to say no, but Crowley should be spending more time with the other first years. He waved a hand clumsily in a shooing motion. Crowley laughed again as he sauntered off to join the others.

Aziraphale didn’t follow, tempted as he was. So he sat and listened to the buzz of conversation as it flowed around him. Occasionally some of the students would come say hello, keep him company and making him laugh. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, he realised, as he chuckled along with the third years.

Inevitably they all wanted to ask about his 'brush with death'. They made it sound much more dramatic than it really was, but he was glad to have something to talk about, since small talk wasn’t his forte. It was nice. He'd never felt so popular. 

Crowley occasionally met his eyes from across the room and smiled at him. 

Aziraphale was glad he’d come to the party, though he pretended not to know why.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's feelings are becoming more than he can handle.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s fifth glass of wine ran dry and he decided it was time to go. It was still early relatively speaking, but it was too late for him. It was late for him to be out of the seminary. He usually was home in bed hours ago – even when he went out with Newt, Anathema and Pepper. But he’d still be awake with a book any normal night, reading until his eyes drooped shut and he needed to sleep. 

However, the alcohol and socialising had exhausted him, as it always did. The celebratory, energetic crowd took more energy than he knew he had. Most of the students would stay and drink for a few hours yet, probably until closing time. But Aziraphale was done.

He stumbled to his feet. He hadn’t realised how relaxed and boneless he’d become until he’d stood, swayed like a boat in a storm.

A strong, masculine arm came around him, securely gripping his waist, steadying him.

“Be careful, angelo,” The rich, deep, accented voice whispered.

He turned to see Raphael, standing so close he could count each long, luscious eyelash. Or he could, if his eyes would focus.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

“Yesss.” He nodded. The room spun around him, making him dizzy.

“You can’t walk back. Let me call a taxi for you,” Raphael offered.

' _He's so selfless and kind_ ,' Aziraphale thought. He wasn’t certain he’d said it out loud, but when Raphael gave a low laugh and squeezed his waist, he worried he might've.

“I want to walk. I want to feel the night air. It’s refreshing,” He tried to say. He wasn’t sure of his success. His tongue felt too big and heavy, but Raphael seemed to understand him anyway.

“Antoni, you will walk him home?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure where Crowley'd appeared from, but suddenly there he was. He looked so beautiful in the dim light of the pub, relaxed, no longer hiding behind glasses or attitude. Aziraphale bit his tongue to keep the thoughts in. He couldn’t let them out. Not ever.

“Of course. Come on, angel. Let’s get you home.”   
Raphael’s arms were relaced by Crowley’s thinner and more gentle pair.

They walked slowly and carefully through the bar, saying goodbye as they went, until they finally made it outside. The night was brisk, but not too cold.

Besides, Aziraphale felt so pleasantly warm from the wine. The gentle breeze hit Aziraphale and he breathed deeply, savouring the smell of the night and the smell of Crowley – his leather jacket and his aftershave – still pressed against him, holding him upright.

“Alright. One foot in front of the other,” Crowley encouraged, pushing him gently forwards.

The normally ten minute walk seemed to take no time at all – though it actually took half an hour – as Aziraphale stumbled along, eyes roaming the deserted streets and stealing glances at his companion. He pointed out things as they went keeping a running commentary.

“That store always has pretty dresses in the window. And that cafe does really scrumptious crepes. I haven’t had proper French crepes in years. And over there is a really nice second-hand bookstore...” He worried that if he stopped for even a second, he’d say something he shouldn’t.

Crowley didn’t interrupt, just humming his agreement every now and again.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh as they stumbled up the stairs. It was so reminiscent of New Year’s. That felt so long ago. He’d only just started to care for Crowley then. Now, he wasn’t sure how to describe how he felt – even sober.

Crowley propped him against the wall beside his door. It was a funny role reversal and Aziraphale giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m leaning. You’re not,” He giggled.

Crowley looked confused, but he laughed too, low and sweetly sincere.

“Need a hand with the keys, angel?” Crowley asked, after they’d stopped laughing and Aziraphale made no effort to open his door.

“No, my dear. I’m fine.” He tried to grab his keys out of his pocket, but his drunk fingers wouldn’t cooperate with the tight jean pockets. Aziraphale could feel Crowley watching and waiting. As the infinite seconds ticked by, he struggled.

“Let me,” Crowley interrupted. He leaned forwards, and before Aziraphale could say anything, he’d plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the keys. He had the door open before Aziraphale could so much as blink.

“There you go,” He said, handing the keys back.

Aziraphale was too busy trying not to say anything stupid that he was immobilized.

“Aren’t you going to go in?” Crowley was smirking, looking unaccountably smug, like he knew the effect he’d had on him. But he couldn’t. Could he?

“Yes. Of course.” He shuffled along the wall until he was leaning on the doorway, halfway into the room.

“Well, I’ll say goodnight then.” Crowley turned to leave, but Aziraphale’s hand on his arm stopped him. It wasn’t a grab, because his fingers found no purchase. But Crowley stopped anyway.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“If the Archbishop wants me gone, he’ll have to drag me away himself. I’m stubborn. You know that better than anyone.”

Even a few months ago, such emotional honesty would be been entirely foreign to their relationship. They’d come a long way.

The alcohol probably didn't hurt either. 

“No. I meant here.” He gestured between them. His wide sweeping motion knocked him off balance. He caught himself on Crowley’s upper arm, grabbing it like a lifeline. It was thin, but undeniably firm. He stroked his thumb over it, mesmerized. The leather was soft and warm from Crowley’s heat.

Crowley’s hand rested on his elbow, securing them to each other.

“Oh.” Crowley looked shocked. “I’m glad to be here too.”

“I think I almost hated you, when we first met,” He said, apropos of nothing.

Crowley just laughed, “The feeling was mutual.”

“I’m glad I don’t hate you anymore.”

“That feeling is mutual too.”

Maybe love and hate were two sides of the same coin. And despite their differences, maybe Aziraphale and Crowley were too. But Aziraphale’s drunk brain couldn’t comprehend such thoughts, too busy smiling goofily and thanking God he’d given Crowley a second chance.

They stood, staring at each other. Aziraphale didn’t know if it was him swaying, Crowley swaying or both of them, but the ground seemed to be unsteady beneath his feet.

And had Crowley always been that close?

“And then he yelled , ‘ _you better not be touching my apple’s_ ,” Adam’s loud voice echoed through the halls.

The laughter of Brian and Wensleydale followed as inevitably as the sun rising at dawn – which was also rapidly approaching.

Suddenly, Crowley seemed so much further away.

“Goodnight, angel,” He whispered, smiling slightly. Almost sadly? Aziraphale couldn’t tell before the other first year, almost second year, students had stomped drunkenly up the stairs.

“Hey, Crowley, Father ‘Ziraphale! Great night, wasn’t it?”

"Yeah, it was." He smiled, but it felt awkward on his face.

"Night guys," Crowley called to them.

Aziraphale watched him swagger away and felt like he'd missed out on something. 

* * *

He woke up slowly. He couldn't quite remember the dream he'd been having, but it left him feeling the wispy tendrils of being loved and happy, with the vision – and taste? – of lush green apples.

He felt warm and comfortable, but his head was throbbing. He wasn't surprised by that, given how much he'd had to drink. He'd lost his self-control and let himself get swept up in the mood of the students.

But he wasn't a student and he felt a tiny hint of shame. He might be their age - or even younger – but it was no excuse to act childish. He shouldn’t have gone, fraternising with the students. But he had surprisingly enjoyed it. Especially with one particular student.

As he slowly surfaced from sleep, he realised his head wasn't the only part of his anatomy that was throbbing. That forced him awake. It wasn't unheard of for him to awaken in such a state. It was a natural bodily reaction and didn't mean anything. But there was something different this time. The residual feelings of his dream were fuelling it. And he knew why.

 _Crowley_.

If he could love him purely, like a brother or a friend, he could deal with it.

If he could desire him, just lust and animalistic passion, he could deal with it.

But both... He felt trapped between the two. The combination was potent and intoxicating, making him feel so overwhelmed and terrified. He'd never felt these feelings before and he didn't want to. He hadn't chosen to feel like this and he didn't know what to do.

Could he tell someone? And who would he tell? Would admitting it lessen the weight he felt or would it solidify the feelings by acknowledging them? Was it worth the risk? What good would it do, when nothing could happen anyway?

He clenched his hands in front of him and prayed.   
' _Why, God? Why have you made me feel this way? Why him? Why now?_ ’

He had too many questions and no answers. He trusted God to guide him always and until now he’d never been led astray. But Crowley had slithered into his life like the original tempter and turned his perfect, serene Eden into a world of confusion.

But it wasn't fair to blame him. It wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He hadn’t asked for Aziraphale to fall for him. He hadn’t even asked for his help in the first place, let alone anything that’d happened since. In fact, he’d been the more reluctant party the whole time.

Crowley should hate Aziraphale. But he didn’t seem to. He seemed to enjoy his friendship and his company and Aziraphale took advantage of that.

He should feel guilt and shame.

But as he thought of Crowley and how he’d looked in the pub the night before – happy, relaxed and smiling at him like he cared about him – his dick throbbed harder and he clenched his teeth, willing his erection to subside. Begging for it to disappear. 

But it wouldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he stayed hard.

Giving into temptation was something he did with food. Or books. Or gossiping with Michael. He didn’t give into this temptation.

But his body had different ideas. His hands drifted towards his crotch and as they wrapped around him, he sighed. In relief or in frustration or both.

It was over quickly, the image of a flushed Crowley, the Crowley who’d dragged him in from the rain, caring enough to even save his books, was the image in his mind. And the name on his tongue.

His morning shower was cold and he didn’t look in the mirror as he passed it. He didn’t think he could meet his own eyes if he did. 

* * *

The church was packed. The students all stood together, some looking significantly worse for wear than usual. They gathered to celebrate and farewell the graduating class.

But Raphael, far from looking tired or hungover, looked as beautiful as ever. He’d tied his long, copper hair back in a simple ponytail and stood tall in his cassock. He was a vision of the perfect priest as he knelt on the alter and took his vows.

Aziraphale saw Crowley watching Raphael, as Aziraphale watched Crowley. The suspicion that it was Raphael that Crowley had fallen for seemed all the more likely.

Though, he knew, logically, that no one could help but to watch Raphael. He was poetry in motion, a Greek God brought to life, a moving marble statue. He was grace and kindness and love.

Aziraphale wanted him gone.

He didn’t really. But the tiny voice inside him wanted Crowley’s – Friendship? Attention? _Love_? – to himself.

He felt like he should burst into flames, thinking such a thing in the church. But God didn’t punish him, except to occasionally make his headache particularly painful.

Before too long, the students were ordained and they were filing out of the church. The graduated students stood surrounded by friends, family and other students, being congratulated.

“I’m going to miss you.” He heard Crowley say as he walked past him and Raphael, who looked as if they were the only two in the entire world.

“I shall miss you too, Antoni.” They embraced and Aziraphale walked away, needing a lie down and an aspirin or two.

Luckily, the students were all heading home for the year end break and he’d have the seminary to himself again. Time to relax and think and get himself under control again. 

* * *

He wasn’t so lucky.

“Hey, angel. How’s things?” A voice interrupted on his way to the library.

Of course, Crowley stayed for the holidays again. He shouldn’t have expected any different. Still, he'd hoped.

He stopped walking, but didn’t turn. He couldn’t look Crowley in the eye. Not since that shameful morning.

“Hi, Crowley. I’m fine, how’re you?” He greeted as politely as possible.

“Oh, you know. Same as ever.”

' _No doubt missing Raphael_ ', Aziraphale thought. But he silenced it. No need to remind him of losing the man he loved and add insult to injury.

“I’m glad I found you, actually,” Crowley continued, unaware of Aziraphale’s inner dilemma. “The Fathers have let us know that in addition to our classes next year, we should be giving back to the community. In a hands on way.”

“Well, yes. Volunteering and giving back to ones community is vitally important.” He reeled off the spiel the Archbishop gave at every opportunity. He inwardly cringed. He didn’t ever want to be like Gabriel.

“Yeah. So, they’re letting us choose where we volunteer.”

“There’s a list of Church approved charities,” He stopped when he saw Crowley’s scrunched up, almost pained expression.

“But is there anywhere else I can volunteer? Because if we don’t choose before term, they’re gonna make us help in the orphanage and I’m allergic to kids.”

“You’re allergic to children?” He was shocked into looking at Crowley fully and immediately wished he hadn’t. Without anyone else around, Crowley hadn’t bothered to style his hair and he wore looser jeans and a hoodie that looked old and worn. Of course, both were his customary black, or at least they had been. They looked more of a dark grey, as if they’d been washed a hundred times. Did he sleep in the hoodie? It looked soft and warm. He wondered how it would feel if he were to wrap Crowley in his arms...

“If I’m forced to be around them for more than two minutes, I break out in hives. _Blergh_.” That was accompanied by a stuck-out tongue in disgust.

Aziraphale thought it was adorable and resisted the urge to giggle. Instead, he raised an eyebrow incredulously, pursing his lips to smother the smile.

Crowley relented and clarified, “Alright. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. But you gotta help me out, angel. If I can start volunteering at a place, they can’t force me to stop and make me change diapers.”

“Well, my friend runs a homeless shelter. She always needs extra hands. Just tell her I sent you and she’ll help you out. It’s not a Church affiliated, but they could hardly object to you helping the homeless. I'll text you the details.”

“You truly are an angel,” Crowley said, giving him a little grin.

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond and he could feel the blush taking over his face, so shrugged and ducked his head.

“Alright, I’ll see you around, yeah?” Crowley clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

“Of course,” He responded, hoping it wouldn’t be too soon.

The sooner he got his feelings in check, the better. 

* * *

Aziraphale made his way to the shelter the next afternoon. It was extraordinarily quiet.

He went searching for signs of life and found Pepper and Michael in the office. He was surprised and yet not surprised to see Michael there. If the seminary was tough on the students leaving the grounds, the convent was far stricter. But Michael wasn’t one to be told what to do and Frances turned a blind eye more than most Mother Superiors would.

“You just missed him,” Michael said by way of greeting.

Aziraphale blinked at them. “Missed who?”

“Your friend Crowley.”

The urge to say they weren’t friends, to deflect and hide the nature of their true relationship was almost overwhelming. But he wasn’t sure he had to hide it anymore. They were mutually acknowledged friends now. There was no shame in that.

Though he had plenty of shame otherwise. 

“Oh. I wasn’t here for him. I was here to help.” He hadn’t expected him to begin volunteering so soon. He’d assumed he’d put it off as long as possible. He didn’t quite know what to make of the fact he’d come the day after their conversation.

“I’m afraid he’s beaten you to it. The kitchen has never been cleaner.” Michael smirked at him.

Aziraphale was known for being too fastidious when it came to cleaning. The fact anyone could out clean him was disconcerting. The fact it was Crowley was beyond surprising.

“He’s not quite what I expected, given your descriptions of him.” Pepper was watching him closely and he wanted to run and hide. 

He tried to remember what he’s said about him. It was nothing flattering, he was sure of that.

“He’s perhaps not as bad as I made him out to be,” He began.

“He’s not exactly the friendliest guy. Does he ever smile?”

“Very occasionally,” He conceded. He’d been blessed with rare, beautiful smiles. But he knew they weren’t given to everyone as freely. Except maybe _Raphael_.

“But he works hard. Gotta give him that,” Pepper added.

“He –“

“Not very talkative either,” Michael chimed in.

“Maybe he’s shy around strangers,” Pepper replied.

“Strange trait for a priest though.”

“That’s true. But then, he doesn’t seem much like a priest at all.”

“He’s got strange eyes, did you notice? What’s wrong with them do you think?”

“It’s a condition –“

Pepper and Michael were just talking amongst themselves, ignoring Aziraphale completely. As always, being around them made him feel like he was at a tennis match, watching the ball bounce back and forth quicker than he could keep up. He usually didn’t mind. But hearing them pick Crowley apart made him want to scream at them to stop, but he couldn’t. For a start, it was rude. And secondly, he couldn’t shut them up once they got started. They were an unstoppable force.

He just needed to wait for them to run out of steam.

“I’m not sure what to make of him, really.”

“Neither.”

“What do you think, ‘Zira?” They turned to him in unison, finally asking for his input.

“He’s nice, once you get to know him.” He remembered how Crowley’d reacted to being called nice. He still didn’t understand why he objected to being described as anything positive. But that was part of navigating a friendship with Crowley.

“Well, I look forward to it, because so far, he just seems like a moody teenager to me.” Pepper shrugged.

Aziraphale bit back the response he wanted to give. But when he met Michael’s eyes, he could see she saw through him. He kept his gaze steady. Even if she could read what he was feeling, she wouldn’t say anything to anyone.

“Alright, if there’s no cleaning or cooking for me to do, I’ll finish the quarterly accounts.”

He set himself up with his new second-hand laptop and Pepper’s box of receipts. He tried his best to focus, but his mind wandered – as usual – to Crowley. He’d never understand the man, even with a million years to study him. He constantly kept him guessing, never letting Aziraphale relax in his knowledge of him for more than a second. It was infuriating. It was frustrating. It was invigorating.

Aziraphale watched Pepper, Michael and the residents wander around. He remembered the young girl, Caterina, who’d asked him for guidance. Thinking back on his own words, he couldn’t help but give a wry laugh. If only he’d known then what he knew now of his own emotions and sexuality.

“Hey, Pepper?” He called.

“Yeah?” She answered, putting down the mountain of laundry she’d been carrying and absently began folding. She never stopped working, even for a second. Aziraphale admired her beyond words.

“There was a young girl here a few months ago, Caterina. Do you know what happened to her?”

“She moved in with her girlfriend and her family.”

A swell of relief filled him. He’d worried about her. She seemed so young and innocent. No one should have to go through what she did.

“Did she get back in touch with her mother?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I was just wondering.” Honestly, he wasn’t sure why her story had stuck with him. It sadly wasn’t the first of its type he’d had confided in him. Nor would it be the last. He was glad she’d been able to stay with Anna. Hopefully they’d make it and be happy together for a lifetime.

Would his mother reject him like Caterina's had rejected her if Frances found out about his feelings for Crowley? Was that why his real parents had abandoned him? Had they known? He’d never know.   
But he did know everyone deserved to find love and happiness.

Aziraphale just wished he hadn’t. Not now, when it was too late. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a heart-to-heart with Michael. And then a hate-to-hate with Gabriel.

Aziraphale lost himself in the bookkeeping, until a pointed clearing of the throat broke him out of it.

“I’m heading back. You coming?” Michael was leaning on the table and appeared to have been for some time. Aziraphale blushed at having been so focused that he hadn’t noticed time passing. Looking at the time, he was shocked to see it was almost dinner. 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The shelter was a 20-minute bus ride or 25-minute walk from the seminary and convent. Usually, Aziraphale chose to walk. The bustling London streets always had something interesting happening, from new shop displays to just watching the wide range of people hurrying past. He enjoyed taking in the world and it never ceased to amaze him.

He’d often stop in a few shops along the way, if he had time. Sometimes he’d waste an hour or two in the second-hand bookshop he’d drunkenly pointed out to Crowley. And he rarely left empty handed. But with Michael along for the walk, he decided to skip it. He didn’t want to bore her.

“I’m glad you and Crowley are getting along now,” Michael said, as they started their journey.

“What?” He was startled. He wondered if she’d been able to read his mind, which was still contemplating the enigma that was Crowley – as always. It was rarer when he wasn't thinking of Crowley recently than when he was. 

“Well, you didn’t exactly get off to a great start, but Raphael said you are friends now? You guys hang out?” She asked, clearly fishing for gossip.

Of course, the only way Raphael could know that they hang out was if Crowley told him. They’d been so secretive about it otherwise, meeting in the abandoned classroom and hardly acknowledging each other outside of it. It confirmed again just how much Crowley trusted Raphael. Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly how close they were. Did Raphael reciprocate Crowley’s feelings? Had they acted on it? He didn’t want to think about it, but his mind prodded at it without his permission.

“Yes, well. We’re friends, I suppose. We have our moments anyway,” He answered non-committally.

“I’m glad. I know how much it annoys you not to have everyone love you all the time,” She joked.

He nearly stopped dead, but somehow managed to keep his feet moving. He knew his desire to please was probably unhealthy, but he couldn’t help it.

“I do not!” He objected.

She didn’t reply, but her expression said everything anyway.

“So, is Crowley really not as bad as he seems?” She continued, ignoring his outburst.

“He’s not as rude as he acts. Though, his arrogance never budges. He’s too slick and he knows it,” He chuckled.

Her eyes assessed him shrewdly. He worried she’d run headlong into a stranger, watching him, instead of where she was going.

“He’s changed you, you know?”

“What do you mean?” He began to panic. Could she see through him? Did she know?

“You’re not as uptight as you were. His lax attitude seems to have rubbed off on you.”

He tried not to blush at her phrasing. He’d not repeated the actions of that particular morning, but sometimes getting to sleep was harder – pun not intended – than he liked.

“I think you might be seeing things, I’m afraid.” He shrugged it off.

“Aziraphale, I know you,” She said simply.

It was true. She’d known him since his teen years. She was the one who knew him best, besides Frances. He wondered... Could he tell her his feelings? They were almost too much for him to handle alone and he wanted someone to talk to, but it was a risk. How would she react?

But who else could he confide in? Frances was out. John was too. He couldn’t bear their judgement or rejection of those he almost considered his parents – especially given what happened between Caterina and her mother. He hadn’t even confessed in confession, knowing the priest on the other side of the partition, no matter who it was, would know him.

He couldn’t tell Newt or Anathema. They would support him, he knew, but they weren’t the advice-giving kinds. Pepper was used to listening and caring. But she wasn’t there for emotional or spiritual support. That was more his job. Pepper was good at getting jobs, homes and lawyers for people, not soothing their existential dread. Besides, none of those three were religious. They wouldn’t understand.

But Michael was a nun. She would understand his confused and complex feelings and the spiritual questions it brought up. And she wouldn’t judge like the elders might. She wasn’t ‘traditional’, like the others in the Church. And he trusted her completely. Even if she didn’t understand or agree with it, she wouldn’t tell anyone.

She was his best option.

“Michael?” He began tentatively.

“Yes, Aziraphale?” She parroted, affecting his formal tone mockingly. They were never formal with each other. She knew something was up.

He ignored the obvious bait. He usually loved their sparring, but now wasn’t the time.

“I ah... I think. That is to say, I, um, have been having feelings.”

“O...K..?” She looked lost. "What kind of feelings?"

He’d had these feelings for weeks or maybe months and still couldn’t understand them. Explaining them out loud seemed impossible. But he had to start somewhere. 

“I’ve been feeling some not 100% strictly platonic feelings for someone.”

“Oh. Ok. And?” She shrugged.

He almost didn’t know how to react to that. It took him a few seconds for his brain to catch up to her decided lack of response. He’d been hoping for more of a reaction. More advice. More... something. Anything. 

“Well, I don’t know what to do,” He prompted.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I know he doesn’t reciprocate and even if he did, nothing could ever happen.” He was determinedly watching his own feet now, avoiding the litter and cracks on the ground. He felt his face turning redder and redder by the second.

“Then what can you do? Crowley has a few more years of study before you can get rid of him. Until then, you’ll just have to deal with it.” He saw her shrug again from the corner of his eye.

He clearly didn’t look convinced, because she continued, “I understand why you’re confused and upset. I assume you’ve never felt like this before?”

“Most certainly not!”

“Most priests are supposed to get this out of their systems before they take their vows. You didn’t. I think this is exactly why people worried you were too young.”

“That’s the issue? That you think I was too young?”

“Not me, the older folks. But yeah. And do you blame them?" 

Looking back, he couldn't blame them. He'd been so sure of everything. But then, ignorance was bliss. 

“You’re not upset or surprised that I’m,” He lowered his voice and looked around, as if someone might be listening. But as was typical for a London street, no one paid them any attention, too busy wrapped up in their own problems. “Gay?”

“Honestly, Z, I’d assumed you were like me.”

“Like you?”

“Not interested in anyone, male, female, non-binary or otherwise.”

“Oh.” Now he thought about it, that made sense. She’d certainly never seemed interested in anyone. Not even the beauty of Raphael had swayed her.

That thought caused his brain to screech to a halt. He was attracted to Raphael? Why hadn’t he noticed before? Or he had, but hadn’t understood the implications.

He felt like he’d been blind. Or he'd been lying to himself. 

“But no, I’m not surprised or disgusted or anything. And I definitely don’t think God cares either. You’re hardly the first gay priest,” She laughed.

He chuckled along. He’d known a few gay priests growing up in the Church and while in the seminary. Of course, it wasn’t discussed. It was more of an open secret. And besides, sexuality didn’t matter when they had to be celibate either way. He was disregarding the stance of the Church on homosexuality, which was dismissive at best and openly hostile at worst. He knew where the Archbishop and his cronies sat on that spectrum. But he’d never felt that way. John, Peter and Frances had raised him differently. Better. 

It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never mentioned a name, but Michael had.

“How did you know I was talking about Crowley?”

“Aside from it being obvious?”

He must have looked as panicked as he felt, because Michael rushed to assure him, “It’s only obvious to me because I’ve known you forever and, like I said, he’s changed you. But I don’t think anyone else knows, for what it’s worth. Not for sure, anyway. A few might've guessed.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” He was wringing his hands and Michael abruptly stopped, pulling them apart and taking them firmly in hers. The London crowd parted around them, with only a few annoyed tuts.

“Aziraphale, I am rarely serious about anything. You know that. But I promise you, I will never tell anyone anything you don’t want me to. Your secret is safe with me. But I don’t think you need to be as worried as you are. No one will judge you. Not anyone who matters, anyway.”

He blinked back the tears that gathered in his eyes. He wasn’t sure of his own feelings yet. They were all so new and confusing. Maybe they’d disappear as quickly as they’d come, but they’d come on so gradually...

He was glad to know, whatever happened, he had Michael’s love and support.

“Thank you, Michael.” He embraced her tightly and she laughed, hugging him back just as firmly.

They walked the rest of the way, discussing more superficial topics. Aziraphale felt giddy. He hadn’t realised just how much weight he’d carried on his shoulders about Crowley. Having someone to talk to made a big difference.

* * *

It was a day like most others, as the seminary – and Aziraphale and Crowley – settled into their customary holiday routines. Aziraphale had set himself up in the library again, playing his music and relaxing. He would've been listening to one of his audio books, but he wanted to be free to talk with the other library dweller.

Crowley was once again sitting across the landing, as was his old spot. Aziraphale was tempted to propose he come and join him at his table, but he knew that wouldn’t exactly be conducive to ignoring the growing feelings he was trying so hard to suppress, so he contented himself with stealing glances whenever he could and occasionally chatting to him. Every time he made him laugh was a delight and he found himself too busy trying to think up funny remarks to pay any attention to his book.

He was so absorbed in ‘reading’ his book, and staring at Crowley, that he didn’t hear the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. When the shadow fell across his face, he gave a start and nearly cursed, but was glad he hadn’t when he looked up to see the stern, iron face of Father Michael.

“Father Aziraphale, this is a library. It isn’t appropriate to play music in here.”

He wanted to argue that Mozart could hardly be termed ‘inappropriate’ under any circumstances. Also, given the only two occupants were himself and Crowley, it seemed stupid to enforce a rule neither cared about. But he bit the reply back, knowing Father Michael didn’t care about logic or reason and only cared for the rigid rules and traditions set by the Church. Anything outside of that seemed foreign to the Bishop.

“Sorry, Your Excellency,” He apologised, turning the music off. He shared a look with Crowley. Crowley looked ready to argue, but at Aziraphale’s shake of the head, he settled back into his seat, jaw visibly clenched.

It was at that point Aziraphale saw Father Michael’s eyes turn to the laptop on his table. His face turned even more severe and forbidding.

“What happened to the laptop we gave you? Why is it damaged?” He demanded, far too loud for a library. Definitely louder than the music had been. He clearly didn’t realise this laptop was smaller, older and silver, not the black of the Church bought computer.

Aziraphale hadn’t been looking forward to this moment. He hoped it would never come. None of the older clergy came into the library very often, especially the Bishop and Archbishop. He thought he’d been safe.

“This isn’t the laptop the Church gave me. This is one I bought for myself.”

“Then where is the laptop we gave you?” He was staring down at Aziraphale as if he was a naughty school child.

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered over to where Crowley sat. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it.

And Father Michael saw it.

“Why does Anthony have the Church's laptop?”

Crowley again looked as if he was going to start yelling, but Aziraphale jumped in before he could.

“He’s just borrowing it to do some research. He doesn’t have one and it’s just temporary.” It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t fully explain the true situation either.

Michael’s frown didn’t move an inch. He looked more disapproving than Aziraphale had ever seen. Not that Aziraphale had ever seen him look anything other than disapproving. He used to wonder as a child if the wind had changed and made his face stay that way, like Frances always used to say whenever he made silly faces.

Father Michael humphed and turned away. He glared at Crowley for a moment, but Aziraphale was happy to see Crowley not giving in to the obvious urge to say something in retaliation. Father Michael strode away in a swish of his robes and left the library completely silent. So silent it was like a vacuum. He could hear his own racing heartbeat.

“Angel,” Crowley began carefully, “Are you OK? Do you want the laptop back? Should I apologise to Father Michael and the Archbishop? I can tell them it was my fault –”

“No!” He interrupted. If Crowley took the blame, they’d use it as the excuse they’d been waiting for to throw him out. But Aziraphale wasn’t a student. They couldn’t do much to him, besides a stern talking to. He’d happily subject himself to a million lectures to keep Crowley safe.

“It was my choice to give you the laptop. Besides, it’s not a big deal.”

Crowley looked unconvinced. It was probably because Aziraphale knew his face betrayed at least a little of his own discomfort. But he plastered on a smile anyway.

“I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

* * *

The summons came early the next morning.

“Father Aziraphale, the Archbishop wishes to see you in his office.”

Even though he’d expected it, his stomach still flipped and he felt nauseous, but he followed the messenger to the main office building silently. The offices were no more imposing than any other building, but it filled him with dread regardless. He’d been a good student, but he imagined this was what being sent to the principal's office felt like.

Gabriel was sitting behind his unnecessarily huge desk. He smirked as Aziraphale entered.

“Shut the door, would you?” It wasn’t really a question.

He closed it as quietly as possible.

“Sit.” Gabriel nodded at the single, obviously uncomfortable chair opposite him.

Aziraphale gingerly sat, folding his hands in his lap nervously.

“You obviously know why you’re here?” Gabriel stared across the desk at him, serious and stern.

“Yes, Your Grace,” He answered politely.

“Stealing from the Church is a serious crime.”

His heart almost stopped.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I didn’t steal the laptop –“

“Ahhh yes, that was your little friend Anthony, wasn’t it? Don’t worry, he’ll be suitably punished as well.”

That was exactly what he’d feared the most. What would they do to him?

“He was only borrowing it. He needed it for research!”

“He couldn’t have gotten his own, or used the one you apparently had, while pressuring us to buy you a new one? Hmm?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. He was shaking – with a potent combination of fear and anger. But he held back the arguments, knowing they’d just get him in even more trouble.

Gabriel smiled a sharklike grin and leaned back in his massive chair, which more resembled a throne than a regular office chair. But then, everything about Gabriel was pompous.

“You have been spoilt and allowed to run riot by certain members of our Church,” He said it with a disgusted sneer, obviously referring to John and Peter, as well as the Reverend Mother. “But no more. You will be brought to heel.”

Aziraphale wanted to growl like the dog he apparently was, but he didn’t. He was still too obedient for that. He cursed himself.

“You have been allowed to break rules and get away with it. I knew I should never have accepted you into the seminary in the first place. But my hand was forced. Now they’ll finally see I was right about you all along.”

Aziraphale had no choice but to endure Gabriel’s self-satisfied diatribe. He grit his teeth and waited.

“You will be sent away. Father Michael will find a suitable parish for you and you will never be allowed back inside these gates.”

Hadn’t his own parish been what he wanted? So why did it suddenly feel like the punishment Gabriel clearly meant it to be?

When Gabriel didn’t say anymore, Aziraphale tentatively asked, “And what of Crowley?”

“He’ll be expelled, as he should’ve been months ago. He’s as much a nuisance as you, but without your connections.” The word ‘connections’ felt like a slur.

A cold feeling of dread overcame him, like he’d had a cold bucket of water dumped over his head. It ran down his spine, setting his nerves on edge.

“Please, Your Grace. He didn’t know. I told him to borrow it. It was my fault.”

“You expect me to believe that? That boy has been nothing but trouble since he stepped foot in the door.”

“He’s been improving. He’s trying. Ask any of the teachers, they’ll tell you the same.” He wasn’t begging. He was trying his best to keep his voice steady, and present an argument rationally. But he was panicking and his heart was racing. If he’d ruined Crowley’s chances, he’d never forgive himself. Why hadn’t he just given him the beaten up, older laptop? He knew why, of course. He wanted to make him happy. Giving him an old, slow, beaten up laptop would hardly win his heart. Not that he’d been trying to win his heart...

He thought they wouldn’t get caught.

“Why do you care so much for this boy? You haven’t cared much for the students before now,” Gabriel asked, eyes assessing.

Aziraphale almost felt like those cold, violet eyes could see right through him. But he stayed still.

 _Don’t give anything away_ , he prayed.

“I just think he deserves another chance.”

But it was too late.

“Do you _care_ for him, Aziraphale?” His disgusted sneer was back in full force.

“I care for all people, Your Grace.” But he could feel the blush rising up his cheeks, betraying him.

“I knew it!” Gabriel shouted, triumphant. “You love him. I knew the influence of certain undesirable people would taint you.”

Aziraphale was confused by that. Undesirable people? Like who?

“And your parents mistakes have been doomed to repeat, as I feared. I should’ve been harsher with you. I should’ve known the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“My parents?” He asked, dazed. Gabriel knew who they were? He'd thought no one had known.

“Your inherent nature and the influence of those men was a toxic combination. I hoped keeping you here in the seminary would temper your worst impulses.”

“You know who my parents are?” He asked again.

“Of course! The stupid boy came to me a week before his ordination, spouting nonsense about love and asking if he should take his vows. I made him take them, of course. The dedication to God and His will doesn’t cease just because you become infatuated with some homeless girl.”

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to know. He’d never wanted to know. His parents had left him, and he had a family – as unorthodox as they were – that had chosen him. That loved him.

But he couldn’t help but listen as Gabriel kept ranting.

“I sent him away, telling him to never think of her again. And if I found out he ever contacted her again, he would be severely punished.”

Aziraphale knew the Church sent priests away to parishes, away from the ones they loved. Or, away from the scenes of their crimes.

“ _She_ ,” He spat, “Came to me. This child, she must have been barely 18. Telling me she was pregnant. Begging me to tell him, crying that he’d abandoned her. Stupid child. I told her to go away and never come back.”

Aziraphale imagined the utter heartbreak of being young, vulnerable and losing the one you loved. His heart broke for her. And for him. They were torn apart by an institution that preached love and compassion.

He wanted to weep.

“When I saw you, I knew whose child you were immediately. She couldn’t raise you alone, she could barely look after herself. She wrote to me, begging me to give you to him, so he could be a father to you, if he couldn’t come back to her. But he was a Father first. I burned the letter.”

Aziraphale’s head was spinning. It was too much to take in at once. How much of his life had been a lie? Did anyone else know about this? Or was this a lie too?

“And now you, falling in ‘love’,” He laughed, “Just like them. But at least they had the decency to not be homosexual.”

He finally found his voice again and immediately begged, “Please, Your Grace. Send me away. Punish me. But leave Crowley alone. He isn’t a bad man. And he doesn’t know about my feelings.” Pride be damned, not that he had any pride left to defend. He would take the punishment, whatever it was, so long as Crowley was safe.

“And you will never see him again? You will bury these so called ‘feelings’ and never mention them again?”

“I promise.”

“Fine. If only to keep him away from you and your perversion, he will be allowed to remain. But one step out of line and he’ll be thrown out.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. It was enough.

“But I don’t think he’ll last the month,” He added.

Aziraphale bit his tongue so hard it hurt. He calmed himself down enough to ask, “And me?”

“Father Michael will find a parish for you, far, far away and you will never be allowed back here. Never.”

Aziraphale didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

“You are dismissed. You should go start packing.” Gabriel smiled his smug, victorious grin and Aziraphale wanted to tear it from his face. But he couldn’t.

He stood on shaky legs and walked mechanically, unthinking, to his room. it wasn’t until he closed the door behind him that he collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. He sobbed so hard he made himself throw up in the small bin beside his desk.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A revelation, courtesy of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few euphemisms for gay are used by Crowley in this chapter. No slurs, just outdated terminology.

What would he do now? What _could_ he do? Wasn’t this what he’d wanted for so long - a congregation of his own? Then, why did it feel like the end of the world?

Eventually, the tears hiccoughed to a stop. He had no idea how long he’d been crumpled in a heap on the floor, staring at the wall. But his back began to ache – nearly enough to rival the stabbing pain in his heart – so he dragged himself up off the floor and set about cleaning himself, and his bin, up.

His eyes flicked over to the hideous Christmas card, that he’d moved to sit on top of his bookshelf – he hadn’t wanted to throw it out or shove it in a drawer to be forgotten – and his eyes began to water again, before he made himself turn away. 

He didn’t know what to do. He’d disgraced himself. How could he possibly tell Frances or John? But they’d find out anyway, soon enough. Gabriel wouldn’t waste an opportunity to lord something like Aziraphale’s failures over them. Yet the idea of telling them made him want to burst into tears and vomit again.

And Crowley... What would he say to Crowley?! It hadn’t been explicit, but it had been heavily implied that if they were seen together or Gabriel caught wind of a continued acquaintance, Crowley would be back on the chopping block and nothing he could say or do would make one iota of difference. Aziraphale couldn’t do that to him.

But the idea of not seeing him again, not making each other laugh or debating ideas made him likewise want to cry and be sick.

He shuffled his way to the bathroom, rinsing off his face and trying to make himself presentable. He would pretend all was well, for now. He’d put off giving the bad news as long as he could. But he knew, it wouldn’t be long.

* * *

‘Hey angel, where are you? You weren't at lunch.’ Crowley had messaged him when he didn’t turn up for lunch. Crowley’s lack of ‘text-speak’ had, at one time, been one of his few redeeming features. Now, it was among his many, many wonderful traits that had made Aziraphale lose his heart.

It was funny what love could do to a person’s perception.

Aziraphale stared at the phone, not sure how to respond. He wanted to let him know not to worry, but he didn’t think he could see him or talk to him without breaking down.

His stomach growled. He’d skipped lunch completely. No wonder Crowley was worried.

He hadn’t not eaten just to avoid Crowley, but also because he genuinely wasn’t hungry. The emotional rollercoaster was doing to his stomach what an actual rollercoaster had done when he was a boy. Back then, Frances had patiently cleaned him up and he’d spent the rest of the day playing the skill games, trying to win the giant stuffed teddy bear.

He suspected it'd take more than that to soothe this sickness.

‘I’m fine. Don’t you worry. I just had lunch out today.’ He sent back.

A lie. And a terrible excuse. He usually let Crowley know when he was out, so he didn’t waste his time waiting for him. But he needed time, so he lied and threw his phone to the other end of his bed. It vibrated, but he ignored it. He knew who it was.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t ask God for guidance or support in a time of need. If God wanted to help him, He’d have to tell Aziraphale why – why He was doing this, why He wasn’t filling Aziraphale with His love and why He had abandoned him?

What had Aziraphale done wrong?

And why didn’t Crowley love him back?

Emotionally and physically exhausted, he slipped into a restless doze.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up to complete darkness. He blinked, disoriented and sluggish. He felt tired, but in a way he knew that sleep wouldn’t cure. He’d slept the day away and yet, he knew he could roll back over and sleep for another 8 hours without a problem.

A vibrating noise from somewhere on his bed startled him and he sat up, groping in the messy bed sheets for his phone. It almost blinded him, causing his eyes and head to ache, but he squinted and managed to turn the brightness down to the lowest level. It was just after 9 o’clock.

He had three messages from Crowley, all received within the last minute. He assumed that was had awoken him.

‘Hey, Aziraphale. Father John told me you had a meeting with Gabriel this morning?’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Wanna meet in the classroom in half an hour?’

He wanted to say no. He didn’t know how much John – and therefore Crowley – knew about his ‘discussion' with Gabriel. And he didn’t want to tell them. Being sent away, like a criminal or a pariah was something Aziraphale would never have imagined. But he was someone he hardly recognised. And he accepted his punishment.

He didn’t know if he could face Crowley now. But he longed to see him. If he only had a week left, he wanted to make the most of it. He might as well indulge his stupid crush, drinking his fill while he could. But if Father Michael or Archbishop Gabriel saw them, Crowley would be in danger again. Was it worth it, to be selfish? Wasn’t that what had gotten him here?

But it was late and he knew no one would see them together. He’d meet up with him, tell him they couldn’t see each other anymore and that would be that. He owed it to Crowley to do that much.

‘Sure. I’ll see you there,” He replied.

He pulled himself up off his bed, straightening his clothes and trying to make his hair somewhat more presentable. 

He opened his door, stepping out into the corridor. Crowley’s door opened a second later and Crowley exited. Their eyes locked.

“Hello,” Aziraphale greeted.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. His face contorted into one of concern, before he smoothed it back into his usual disinterested scowl. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” He lied, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

They turned and started heading towards the classroom, as if by mutual agreement. They didn’t need to go to the classroom. They had this entire floor of the dorms to themselves. But the classroom was their meeting space. It felt almost wrong to talk anywhere else.

“What did the Archbishop say?” Crowley wasted no time in asking.

“Oh that,” He gave a weak, fake laugh, as if he’d forgotten all about it, “It was all a misunderstanding. It’s fine. I’ve sorted it out.”

“Are you sure? Father John seemed worried.”

“It’s absolutely tickety-boo.”

“So you’re not in trouble? Do you need the laptop back?”

He hadn’t thought about that. Gabriel hadn’t asked for it back, but he suspected if it was found in Crowley’s possession a second time, the Church would be far less forgiving.

“Ah, yes. I think that’s probably for the best. You can have my spare one, if you’d like?” He offered.

Crowley shook his head.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll get my own. There’s few places I could get one for really cheap.”

“If you’re sure,” He hesitated.

“I’m sure. I’m not risking angering the boss again,” He joked.

They made their way across the moonlit courtyard, towards the school building. He looked up for a moment, looking to see which lights were on and if they were likely to be seen. But the lights were all off and, knowing the elderly clergymen, they’d be tucked up in bed by now.

His gaze was drawn further up to examine the stars. It was a clear night and, despite the London light pollution, he could see entire constellations. Crowley hadn’t noticed he’d stopped for a few steps. He heard Crowley’s footsteps falter and stop.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Aziraphale asked. He wished he could see them all. But the London lights drowned all but the brightest out.

“They are. Breathtaking.”

But when Aziraphale shyly lowered his eyes back to Earth and the man beside him, he found Crowley’s eyes on him. He was thankful the courtyard was dark enough to hide at least some of his blush.

“Anyway,” He cleared his throat, “You don’t need to worry. Gabriel has decided not to punish you for my mistakes.”

“Gabriel has never needed an excuse to punish me before now. I doubt he’ll need one in the future.”

They’d entered the building and begun their ascent upwards to the top floor. Crowley took the lead, leaving Aziraphale to trail behind, carefully watching the steps, rather than the man above him. His face was at an uncomfortable level on Crowley's back. If he turned around, he'd be at eye level with...

He shook off that thought. 

“You’ll be careful not to incur Gabriel's wrath, won’t you?” He asked instead. He couldn’t bear to think of his sacrifice being wasted.

“Angel, I don’t love being scowled at or lectured. Trust me, if I can avoid it, I will."

“But you love scowling so much,” He teased.

“Haha,” Came the unamused reply. Or at least, it sounded like it should’ve been unamused. He thought he could hear the smile on Crowley’s face, but he couldn’t see it, no matter how hard he tried. 

They fell into a companionable silence as they climbed, which Aziraphale was thankful for. His breath was coming heavier than he liked.

 _‘I’m too soft,’_ He thought, ruefully. Especially given the lithe and lean man above him. For such a lean man, he had quite an impressive arse... 

Again, he shut the thoughts out. 

“You alright there?” Crowley asked, glancing back at him.

Aziraphale hoped the perspiration on his brow wasn’t too obvious in the dim stairwell lighting.

“I’m fine,” He replied, trying his hardest to sound as if he wasn’t completely out of breath.

“Anyway, I’m glad Gabriel wasn’t too harsh. From what John said, it sounded like he’d really chewed you out.”

What had John heard? Did everyone know what had happened? He needed to talk to John before he told anyone else. God knows what Frances would think when she heard. All his life he’d tried so hard to make her proud.

“It wasn’t so bad.” The lie almost choked him. He wasn’t a liar. He never had been. He suspected he wasn’t very good at it, but luckily, they’d only just reached the classroom door and Crowley wasn’t paying him too much attention.

The door swung open and Aziraphale flipped on the switch. The light blinded him for a second, but he heard the noise of surprise from beside him, as well as from further inside the classroom. When his eyes adjusted, he saw John, standing by the window. He had a hand clutched to his chest and he looked like he’d had the life half scared out of him. And he’d quite clearly been crying. His eyes were red and the tear tracks were obvious, even from 20 feet away.

Aziraphale wanted to rush to him, to comfort him, but with Crowley beside him, he felt self-conscious.

“Aziraphale, Crowley, what are you doing here?”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to reply. They weren’t there to study, as was the usual excuse. He knew the lie would sound even more false than usual, given it was still holiday break. And Crowley, though doing better, was still not the most studious.

“We came up here to look at the city. It’s nice at night, isn’t it, Father?” Crowley smoothly swooped in, saving Aziraphale.

“It is,” John sighed. He snapped out of his daze and hastily wiped his face.

“Why are you here?” ' _In the dark, all alone at night?'_ Aziraphale wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to be rude.

“It’s Peter’s birthday. Or it would’ve been.” He turned back towards the window. With the classroom light on, Aziraphale could see his reflection and the new tears that fell. “Today would’ve been his retirement.”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten the birthday of one of the most important man in his life? He felt sick to his stomach. Again. 

“We used to come up here sometimes, when we were your age. This was his favourite place in the school. It was like our secret hiding spot.”

Aziraphale’s eyes found Crowley’s and they shared a look.

“He brought me up here too, sometimes. When I was upset. It was our safe space.”

Aziraphale turned away from Crowley, finally crossing the room and putting his arm around John's shoulders.

“He loved you like a son, did you know?” John sobbed.

“And I loved him like a father. He was the best of men.”

John’s sobs only grew louder. His grief was almost tangible and suffocating in the room.

Glancing back, Aziraphale saw an incredibly uncomfortable looking Crowley. To see a teacher, a mentor, crying must be strange, Aziraphale thought. But as priests, comfort was one of their job descriptions. Still, Crowley stood awkwardly behind them, shifting nervously.

“We thought we’d have longer. He always used to say, ‘ _only the good die young, darling, so we have decades left_ ’,” He gave a shaky, rasping laugh. “I think he believed it too.”

“I thought so too. He should’ve been here.” Aziraphale felt tears begin to creep down his own cheeks, but his own grief could wait. John needed him now.

“We were going to buy a cottage in the country and raise chickens. Neither of us knew anything about chickens, but I could never talk him out of it.”

“I’m sure you’d have learnt.”

“Why did he have to keep putting it off? That stupid, stubborn man!” He suddenly exclaimed. “We could’ve retired years ago! But he always said, ‘ _Just a little more time.’_ And now look. We ran out of time.” As fast as his anger had come, it fled again. His cries echoed around the classroom.

Aziraphale just held him. Looking through the window, he saw a bustling London, with people going about their lives, unaware of their pain. Looking at their reflection, Aziraphale was shocked to see he’d grown taller than John. When had that happened? He looked like a man now, not the boy Peter and John had helped raise.

Over their shoulders, Crowley stood, silently watching.

Slowly, John’s tears stopped, and he rested his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Don’t make the same mistakes I did, my angel,” He whispered.

Before Aziraphale could ask, John had pulled away and squared his shoulders, as if steeling himself to face the world again.

“I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry to have startled you.” He gave Crowley a look and a weak smile.

And then he was gone.

Aziraphale let out a quivering breath and collapsed at the nearest desk. His eyes lingered on the London skyline.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked carefully, pulling up a chair beside him.

“I will be. I just... I can’t believe I forgot it was today. And John, I can’t imagine losing my best friend like that. He’s heartbroken. I didn’t realise how hurt he still is.”

Crowley scoffed. “I’m not surprised.”

“They were best friends since their days at the seminary, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

There was something strange about his tone. He was looking at Aziraphale, almost smiling in a wry, knowing kind of way.

Aziraphale turned to him fully.

“What do you mean?” He felt his eyebrows furrow and he saw Crowley’s face change slowly in realisation.

“Angel, no.” He shook his head, disbelieving.

“What?” He was getting annoyed now. 

“You can’t be serious!” Crowley looked aghast. His eyes were getting wider by the second, almost threatening to pop completely out of their sockets.

“What are you talking about?” He snapped.

“You cannot seriously be telling me you don’t know they were in love?”

Suddenly Aziraphale’s mind was blank, like he’d hit restart. There was a sort of buzzing or ringing in his ears. All air had disappeared from his lungs without a trace.

“No,” He protested feebly, when his mouth remembered how to function. But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it.

“I’d only seen them together for five seconds before I knew.”

“They’ve just always been friends, that’s all. They’ve always been affectionate.” But he was arguing something he suddenly knew was undeniably, obviously, true. He felt stupid. How had he been so blind?

“Of course, they were affectionate. They’d probably been together since they were our age.”

“How did I not know?” He asked, looking upwards. Not asking God, so much as himself. But Crowley answered the rhetorical question anyway.

“You grew up around it. It’s hard to see things from close up. Besides, it takes one to know one.”

At his confused look, Crowley continued. “You know – friends of Dorothy? Limp wristed? An abomination in the eyes of the Lord?”

“Oh!” The surprise wasn’t so much that Crowley was gay. He’d suspected – or known – as much for a while. But that he confessed it was something Aziraphale hadn’t expected.

“Yeah.” Crowley was looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. He was picking at his nails and tapping a foot on the floor, fast and out of rhythm.

“Well, you know. I mean...” He was flustered. How did one respond to that? He’d had people come out to him before. He’d handled it much better with Caterina. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

This was _Crowley_. It shouldn’t make a difference who it was, but it did. He wanted to reassure him, comfort him, tell him he was apparently newly out too, confess his feelings – but his brain and mouth were malfunctioning, and he couldn’t get them to cooperate.

“You’re not homophobic, are you?” Crowley asked. He was trying to play it cool, but there was a very real, almost primal fear in his eyes, like he regretted trusting Aziraphale with this.

“No!” He replied, a little too fast and much too loud. He wanted to slap himself.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course! Why would I be?”

“The Church doesn’t exactly have the best track record with being open minded about this stuff.”

“My dear,” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, “I am not Archbishop Gabriel.” The memory of the disgust on Gabriel’s face was still clear as it had been that morning. “I have never and will never judge someone for their sexuality.”

He could feel the relief pouring off Crowley in waves, but as usual, Crowley was doing his best to hide any and all emotion. Before he could use any glib line or laugh it off, Aziraphale pushed forwards.

“Did you really think I would judge you?” He felt hurt that Crowley had doubted, but there was a nagging feeling that told him this wasn’t just because of him.

“Nah. I figured you’d be chill about it.”

“Crowley, you can talk to me –“ But before he could so much as say another syllable, Crowley’d stood and begun his swift retreat.

“I’ll get the laptop back to you ASAP, alright?”

And he was gone before Aziraphale could blink.

* * *

He wanted to avoid telling John and Frances about his meeting with Gabriel, but he knew he couldn’t dodge them – and the truth – for long. The seminary and convent were small communities, where news travelled faster than lightning. If Gabriel hadn’t already told them, he soon would and Aziraphale knew the news should come from him and no one else. But how could he tell the two people he loved the most in the world that he’d messed up so badly and he’d barely ever see them again? Gabriel banning him from the seminary wasn’t just to keep him away from Crowley and he knew it.

Gabriel had hated Aziraphale from the second he first learnt of his existence and he was finally able to punish him for it. And in doing so, punishing the people who had loved and raised him too. It was like Gabriel had been waiting for this moment. Just biding his time until he could throw him out, screaming ‘ _I told you so_ ’ in their faces as he did. Aziraphale had never liked Gabriel, but now, he was quite prepared to say that he despised him. He wanted to wipe that ever present smirk off his stupid face, but he couldn’t.

He needed to face the consequences, so, he called a family meeting. Just the three of them.

‘ _God, help me to stay strong_ ,’ He begged, not sure he had the strength to confess to everything.

He rehearsed his speech over and over and still wasn’t happy with it. Even standing in front of them – in Frances’ much more humble office than that of the Archbishop – he didn’t know what to say. They were looking at him expectantly, but by the frowns on their faces, he knew they suspected the worst.

“You know I had a meeting with Gabriel yesterday morning,” He began. His stomach was roiling, and he wanted to pace, but he kept himself still, clutching his hands behind his back, wringing them together.

“We know.”

“Well, I have some news. I’ve finally got my own parish, just like I always wanted!” He forced a smile.

Frances and John were disappointed, of course. He’d known they would be. He’d framed the entire ordeal as well as he could, but they all knew that it wasn’t a reward for his good work. He carefully avoided using Crowley’s name too much or giving away his feelings for the man, but knowing Gabriel, he suspected the gossip would be all over the seminary as soon as possible. Aziraphale could only hope he’d be gone by the time Crowley heard about it. He didn’t think he’d be able to face him, if he knew. The guilt and shame were drowning him as it was.

He didn’t even want to think about Frances and John finding out about his sexuality.

He also omitted any mention of his parents, still not sure if Gabriel had been telling the truth or if he had, exactly what he wanted to do with the information. Should he find them? Should he ignore it? He wasn’t sure and it was the least of his worries, all things considered.

He’d expected tears, whether from himself, or one of his adoptive parents, but it hadn’t happened. What he hadn’t expected was the anger from Frances. Her usual calm, almost saintly demeanour flipped until even Aziraphale was frightened of her. But she wasn’t angry at him. She was furious with Gabriel. Aziraphale worried she was going to march right over to Gabriel’s office and give him a piece of her mind – or tear him limb from limb and smite him down. Aziraphale had seen Frances upset before, but never the righteous, indignant fury she was radiating at the idea that Gabriel had viciously and vindictively punished Aziraphale for something so petty.

Aziraphale’d always wondered how a loving, forgiving God could become so angry and seek revenge. He thought now, he understood it a little more.

Luckily John and Aziraphale managed to calm her enough to hold her rant at bay – at least for now.

Both John and Frances embraced him, comforting him, telling him they loved him. And it helped to ease his mind somewhat. Yet he couldn’t help but worry what he was going to tell Crowley. He wasn’t looking forward to it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all waited for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of assault, but nothing graphic. Also, homophobia. Basically, Crowley's backstory isn't happy.

John and Aziraphale left the convent together. They walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Aziraphale had things he wanted to ask, about Peter and about their relationship, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to upset John and was it really any of his business? They’d obviously kept it a secret for a reason. A reason important enough to even keep it from Aziraphale, who they'd considered a son.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” John asked, as they reached the crossroad between the school buildings and where they would usually part.

“Sure.”

John’s room, unlike Aziraphale’s was a staff residence, meaning it was four times as large. It also had more modern amenities, including a kitchenette, where John busied himself boiling the water and preparing the cups. It gave Aziraphale a chance to observe him. He looked far healthier than he had a few months ago, but it was clear losing Peter had taken a toll that not time could heal. It seemed so obvious why now, but was that because he knew about their relationship?

“Here we go, my dear,” John said, sitting the sweetened tea in front of him. He also placed down an assortment of biscuits on a daffodil patterned plate – one that had belonged to Peter.

“Thank you,” He replied. He knew the tea would be too hot, but he couldn’t think of a way to subtly ask the questions almost bursting out of him, so he blew on the liquid and tentatively took a sip. It burnt, but he’d been expecting it.

“So, Crowley isn’t being expelled for his part in this?” John asked.

“No. Gabriel decided it was best to punish me and only give Crowley a warning.” It wasn’t strictly true, but it was as close as he felt comfortable sharing.

“You know, I worried about you and Crowley. At first, I worried you might not get along. Now I worry you get along too well.” His intelligent green eyes were watching Aziraphale over the rim of his cup, which matched the plate.

Aziraphale tried not to choke on the chocolate chip biscuit he’d just taken a healthy bite of. He took a sip of tea to wash it down, and to buy him more time before he had to reply. He knew his panicked and red face would give him away, but maybe he could deflect at least a little bit.

“What do you mean?” He asked, faux innocently.

“I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did, but I don’t know exactly what that means.” His eyes drifted to a photo that sat on his desk. It was an older picture, black and white and grainy, but it was undoubtedly John and Peter as young priests. Aziraphale’s heart gave a painful lurch. They had their arms around each other, grinning like their lives were just beginning. They looked happy.

He summoned up all his courage. “Do you regret being with Peter?”

“No,” He sighed. “I just wish we’d had more time.”

Almost 50 years seemed like a long time. More time than a lot of people got.

“How did you – when did you..?” He wasn’t sure how to phrase what he wanted to ask.

“I loved him from the moment we met.” He smiled, clearly lost in memories. “But it wasn’t until the party, the night before graduation, that we finally confessed to each other. I'd never been so happy.”

Aziraphale thought back to that moment outside his door, when Crowley had left the party, just to walk him home. He’d been drunk, but he’d started to understand, with a startling clarity, that he felt something for Crowley he shouldn’t, even if he hadn’t named it at the time.

Then the smile melted off John’s face. “I tried to convince him not to go through with the ordination. I thought we could be together. I mean, we loved each other. Wasn’t that enough? But he said that being a priest was his calling. He couldn’t abandon it, not even for me.” The bitterness was cutting.

“I was angry and hurt. He chose the Church over me. When we were assigned to our parishes, far away from each other, I was glad. He wrote to me. Once a week, for months. I either ignored them or told him to stop. He didn’t listen. He was always far more stubborn than me.” He smiled ruefully.

“Of course, we couldn’t risk writing anything incriminating. If anyone found our letters, we needed to be able to say they were letters between friends, nothing more, nothing less.”

“How long did you stay away from each other?” Aziraphale asked. Now he could ask, he wanted to know everything.

“Almost 20 years.”

That shocked Aziraphale to his core. He’d expected an answer of a year, many two. He’d thought they were best friends, almost inseparable, for life. Not once had he imagined anything different. Though he’d thought it was as friends and nothing more. He almost wanted to laugh at how blind he’d been. There was so much he didn't know. 

The idea of the same thing happening to him, of not seeing Crowley for a quarter of a lifetime, struck terror into him. But he and Crowley weren’t John and Peter. Aziraphale might love Crowley, but Crowley loved Raphael. No matter what – whether they were far apart or here together at the seminary – Aziraphale would be alone.

John continued, oblivious to Aziraphale’s turmoil, “And then he got cancer.”

“Peter had cancer?” He hadn’t known that either. As ridiculous as the impulse, he felt fear. But this was ancient history, and Peter was gone.

“This was before you were born. He wrote to me, saying that no matter what has happened between us, he needed me. I almost didn’t open that letter. After so long, I couldn’t imagine what he could possibly say to me. But I couldn’t help myself. I missed him. As I read it, I cried, knowing I might lose him forever. I realised how stupid I’d been, and how much time I’d wasted. I begged God to save him. I'd never prayed like that before, and only once since. And the second time, I did lose him.”

“What happened?” He asked, desperate to learn about a part of Peter’s life he’d never imagined existed.

“He was scared, of course. Scared of pain, scared of dying... But not as scared as I was. He’d always trusted God’s plan more than I did. He said no matter what happened, it was meant to be. I’d always envied his optimism. But it drove me crazy too. Couldn’t he just, for once, not look on the bright side?”

Aziraphale’d always loved Peter’s ability to see the good in everything and everyone. It was one of his teachings he’d tried to build his approach to life – and being a priest – on. He’d never seen it as a bad thing before. But looking through John’s eyes, he was seeing everything from a different perspective.

“I was ready to drop everything to be with him. But he didn’t want that. So, I visited him when I could. And we learnt how to be friends again. After he was given the clean bill of health, he moved back to the seminary. He said he wanted to teach. He said he still had a calling, that God wasn’t done with him yet. And I followed him here not quite a year later.”

“Did you..?”

“It's not what you’re thinking. We never broke our promises to God. But we couldn’t stop ourselves. We fell in love again. Not that I’d ever stopped. And he promised, as soon as possible, we’d retire and be free to be together. But he put it off. Every year he said, ‘ _next year, I swear_ ,’ but every year dragged on and became the next. And I let him. Because I thought we’d have time.” Tears had begun to well in his eyes again as he shook his head in frustration and regret.

“I wish I’d insisted. I wish I’d told him I loved him more. I wish we’d had more time. I was angry at him – and at God, for taking him from me – for so long.”

Aziraphale heard the echo of Crowley in John’s words. He’d been angry at God too. Aziraphale understood why. Both of them had suffered for no discernible reason. He couldn’t blame them.

“I don’t want you to suffer, my darling angel. Don’t let your heart get away from you. Peter wanted you to be the priest he couldn’t be – untouched by the earthly idea of love. He wanted you to love God before any man or woman. If what you feel for Crowley is what I feel – felt – for Peter, then it’s already too late. But please, be careful.”

He couldn’t lie and deny what he felt. But looking at John, seeing the strength of a love that lasted 50 years, he knew he had a choice. He could stop these feelings, forget them and move on. Or he could let them grow, watering them and nurturing them, even knowing Crowley loved someone else.

It was an easy choice.

“Don’t worry, John. I’ll be careful.”

* * *

He was being avoided. Again. It was one thing to be ghosted – a term Michael had taught him – when the seminary was, well, not _full_ , but busy with students, teachers and researchers, like him. But now, with the seminary mostly deserted, it felt especially lonely and deliberate. It reminded him of his time as a student, staying back over holidays. He hadn’t been lonely back then, had he? He didn’t think he had. He’d usually luxuriated in the peace and quiet. But since Crowley swept in like a hurricane, his life had been far from peaceful or quiet.

Once more, Crowley had shrunk away after opening up. And Aziraphale was getting sick of it.

Pepper told him Crowley had still been coming in to volunteer every week. But he'd been strategic, sneaking in and out when he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be there.

“He looks pretty unhappy if you ask me,” She’d commented. “Not that it necessarily means anything, since unhappy is his default. He just looks extra depressed.”

Aziraphale only took a little bit of happiness in knowing Crowley was suffering too. It was petty, but a part of him still thought of Crowley as a rival or antagonist or something. He was the spark to his fuse.

He texted him every few hours. He knew annoying him might not inspire him to communicate but waiting had never worked either. 

‘Crowley, are you free this afternoon?’

Nothing.

‘The library is too quiet. Perhaps you might join me today?’

Silence.

‘Crowley, can we at least meet, so you can give me the laptop back?’

Nada. Zilch. Zip.

‘Please, my dear?’

Aziraphale was stubborn and he was proud. But he missed him, and their time was running out – not that Crowley knew that. If begging was what it took, he’d lower himself and beg.

He sent it and watched his phone, chewing on his lip nervously. There was no reason Crowley would reply right away, except that Aziraphale knew that Crowley could accidentally superglue his phone to his hand and not notice the difference until he went to shower.

Aziraphale turned his thought a away from a wet, naked Crowley and tried to continue reading.

‘Hi. I have the laptop. Wanna meet in the classroom tonight? Same time?’

He didn’t even pretend to hesitate, typing out and sending ‘Yes’, almost before his phone had stopped vibrating.

‘K.’

His stomach flipped. Why was he nervous to meet up with him? It wasn’t the first time. He hadn’t even been that nervous back then. He’d been innocent and happy.

They’d met up dozens of times. How was this any different? Yet, it felt different. He knew deep down why this meeting filled him with dread – it might be the last.

* * *

Aziraphale straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. He opened his door and glanced down the hallway, only to see Crowley hobbling towards him, towards the stairs. His face was set in even more of a grimace than usual.

“Hi, Crowley,” He greeted hesitantly. He wasn’t sure how Crowley would act. He’d been avoiding him, but he didn’t look particularly angry or otherwise upset as he looked at him now. He just looked pained.

“Hey angel,” He said, voice sounding strained. He continued walking down the corridor and Aziraphale was now sure that his usual swagger was entirely gone, replaced by a stiff, uncomfortable looking gait.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s just my hip.” He dismissively waved him off.

“Have you hurt it?”

“No. It just hurts sometimes, that’s all.” Crowley made a pained grunt.

“Come on in.” He made the split-second decision, opening his door and gesturing for Crowley to enter.

Crowley peered into the room suspiciously and shook his head.

“It’s fine. Let’s just go to the classroom.”

“Don’t be a martyr. I am not making you walk all that way when you’re clearly in pain. Come in and sit down.”

He looked as if he was going to argue, but Aziraphale just stared at him, unmoving. If it was a duel of stubbornness, he was determined to win.

Crowley eventually sighed and entered, passing him in the doorway, almost rubbing up against him. Aziraphale held his breath and didn’t breathe again until the door was shut. The choices of where to sit were limited to the bed and the office chair at his tiny desk. Crowley immediately headed for the desk, navigating around the stacks of books strewn around the floor. He sat with another exclamation of discomfort. His legs, too long for the low chair, seemed to sprawl halfway across the tiny space. He placed the ‘stolen’ laptop down on the desk without a word, effectively returning it.

Aziraphale wanted to grab it and fling it out the window, but he couldn’t, so he grit his teeth and gingerly sat on his bed. His heart was racing, having Crowley so close. They had been closer before, but to have him close in such a personal space – where Aziraphale had never let anyone before – felt overwhelming. He looked too big in the suddenly too small room.

“So,” Aziraphale began. He didn’t exactly know what to say. He couldn’t gauge how Crowley was feeling, so he decided to stick to something neutral. “You’ve broken your hip before?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered, giving no further information.

The room was silent again.

“I broke my arm as a boy,” Aziraphale offered.

“Most kids do.”

He sighed. He couldn’t carry a conversation alone or force Crowley to talk if he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to chase Crowley off, but he also knew he couldn’t keep him here in silence or meaningless small talk.

“Did you really think I would judge or shun you for being gay?” He blurted. Apparently, his brain had decided to throw away all tact and subtlety.

“Aziraphale,” He said, warning clear in his voice.

“Crowley,” He replied, glare in place.

Sensing he wasn’t getting away that easily, Crowley swivelled the chair until he was facing as far away from Aziraphale as he could without stuffing his too long legs under the tiny desk. He still eyed the door hopefully though.

“I don’t know,” He grumbled, “You were raised by the Church. I figured maybe you thought like them.” He gestured at the window, which Aziraphale took to encompass the seminary as a whole.

“Yes, but I was also raised by Peter and John. And while I didn’t know they were gay, they would hardly have taught me to hate them, would they?”

Crowley laughed dryly. “You’d be surprised. There’s a lot of self-hatred out there among my crowd.”

“You don’t hate yourself, do you?”

“Love thy neighbour as thyself. That’s easy to say, if you love yourself. But it’s not so easy for those with low self-esteem.”

He said it as if it didn’t matter, but it clearly did. Aziraphale thought back to one of their first heart-to-hearts. ‘ _You can’t be hurt if you don’t let anyone close, right?_ ’, he’d said. How many people in his life had rejected and hurt him?

“Crowley, my dear…” He didn’t know how to comfort him. He wasn’t exactly an expert on loving oneself either.

“You wanna know how my best friend reacted when I told him I was gay?” His eyes were fierce with tears and anger. “He got some of his buddies together and they beat me up. That’s how I broke my hip, which is why I walk weirdly. And they also broken my nose, my arm, collarbone and two ribs. Along with some internal bleeding and a serious concussion.” He was panting, distressed and in pain. His hands gripped the arms of the office chair, enough it must’ve hurt, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Why?” He asked, disbelieving. Why would someone do that?

“I guess he was worried I was in love with him or something,” He laughed slightly maniacally. “Funny thing was, I was. Or, I thought I was.”

The bottom fell out of Aziraphale’s stomach and he was sure he’d gone as white as a sheet.

“What?”

“I woke up a week later in hospital. I’d nearly died. And at the time, I wished I had. Everything hurt.” His eyes were focussed on nothing. Aziraphale wondered if he even knew where he was or what he was saying. He must’ve needed to confess, because he kept going, hardly pausing to take a breath.

“I told my parents we were in an accident and Sam died. They were glad. They’d always hated him. They said he was a bad influence. They used to call him Satan. But I never listened. I was young and dumb. And he was older, cooler and beautiful.”He paused for a moment. 

Aziraphale couldn't move or breathe. 

“But, of course, he hadn’t died. He just didn’t want to see me anymore. And then two of my sister’s, Lily and Belinda, saw him in town. And he told them what happened, why he’d attacked me. And they told our parents.” He swallowed heavily. “I’d only been outta hospital for four weeks. Dad broke my ribs again. Three this time.”

Aziraphale wanted to reach out, but Crowley had shrunken in on himself, making himself small and defensive. Aziraphale knew no touch would be welcome when it looked like he expected another hit.

“And then they threatened to throw me out. It was either become a priest and spend the rest of my life repenting or be disowned and starve on the streets, like the people at Peppers’ shelter, before they found her. I didn’t have a choice.”

Crowley was crying and Aziraphale realised that he was too. No wonder Crowley didn’t trust anyone! Who could do such a thing to their own child? But he also Caterina and Crowley were far from being alone in being ostracized for their sexuality.

“I was angry. Why was I being punished for things I couldn’t control? My eyes, my sexuality, my love... If God even existed, He was cruel and heartless. I hated Him.”

Aziraphale gasped. He had known of Crowley’s questioning of the scriptures, of his distrust of the Church as a whole and his disobedience. But to question God’s existence? To claim to hate Him? It was blasphemy of the highest order.

“But then I came here,” His sparkling eyes met Aziraphale’s for the first time in what felt like years, “And you, and John and Peter changed me. Maybe God still hated me. Or maybe His plans were ineffable. But you and the Father’s showed me a different way.”

“You asked me a long time ago why I was becoming a priest. That’s why. You, angel. I don’t care if my parents cut me off anymore. They mean nothing to me. But you showed me that being a priest is more than serving God. And I wanna help those kids like me, hurt by religion. Told they’re sinners and going to Hell. I want to save them.”

Aziraphale was sure his heart had stopped.

“Crowley, my dearest –“

Crowley shook his head, and seemed to come back to the present.

“I’m sorry for dumping all that on you.” His eyes scanned the room nervously. His hands had released the chair and were folded in his lap, as he nervously picked at his nails. And then his eyes landed on the lone Christmas card, high above them, but prominently displayed.

“Angel?” He asked a million questions with one word and one look.

Aziraphale could say he’d forgotten it. Say he'd meant to throw it out. But it was so obviously placed to be visible from everywhere, that there was no way Crowley would believe it. Sure, he had piles of books, like Crowley had piles of clothes, but they were orderly piles. The card was conspicuously out of place. 

“I...” He didn’t know what to say.

“You kept it?”

“It’s a nice picture?” He lied. The fat little cherub with its red, almost drunken looking face was hideous and they both knew it.

“Why?”

“People don’t usually give me cards or gifts.”

“It’s been almost 9 months. You didn’t stuff it in a drawer or chuck it out?”

“Crowley, please,” He begged. He knew Crowley wouldn’t judge when he confessed he was gay. But Crowley was in love with someone else. To hear Aziraphale was pining for him, pathetically hoarding every scrap of affection like a thief, would ruin their friendship. Or worse.

“Aziraphale, why did you keep it?” He’d stood and now towered above Aziraphale like a terrifying judge, ready to pass sentence. He hadn’t needed to take a step towards him. The room was so small they were in close proximity regardless. Their legs almost touched.

A hand landed on Aziraphale’s cheek, guiding his gaze up to meet Crowley’s beautiful, soft, golden eyes. They looked so understanding.

“I couldn’t,” He whispered.

Crowley bent down and before Aziraphale could say or do anything, they were kissing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is being kissed and having a meltdown. The aftermath begins.

Their lips met and Aziraphale swore he could see Heaven.

He’d never kissed anyone before. He’d never even bothered imagining what it would feel like. But the overwhelming rush of joy and love he felt was indescribable. He felt like he was weightless and free, like he’d sprouted wings and taken flight. His heart leapt and he almost swore he could hear an angelic chorus.

He wanted to fall to his knees and thank God for giving him this, but he was too busy being kissed and he wasn’t going to pull away for anything.

It wasn’t like the kisses he’d seen in the movies. It wasn’t hot or heavy. They weren’t pawing at each other like animals. It was a simple press of warm, soft lips. In most people’s estimation, it might have been barely a kiss at all. But it was more than enough to overwhelm his senses. He wasn’t sure his body could contain all the feelings he was feeling all at once. He thought he might explode.

He’d never felt so alive, so real, so human.

But before he could properly memorize or understand all the sensations, Crowley had pulled away. The kiss must’ve lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like his entire world had changed. He opened his eyes, blinking and trying to adjust to this new, brighter reality.

He was glad he was sitting, because he doubted his legs could hold him.

“Angel, I’m sorry.” Crowley was backing away, knocking a pile of books into another, causing a domino effect around the room.

Aziraphale loved his books. They were his treasure. But he couldn’t have cared less as they toppled. They could’ve spontaneously combusted, but so long as Crowley was there with him, he wouldn’t mind. Let them burn.

Aziraphale’s hand reached out and grabbed Crowley’s forearm, stalling his retreat.

“No. Stay.” He tried to sound authoritative. But his voice was shaking and he was still dazed from the kiss. 

“Father, I shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?” He asked. He was sick of trying to act like the perfect priest all the time. It was what Peter had wanted. But what about what he wanted?

He wanted this. Why shouldn’t he have it? He was being punished for it anyway. He might as well do the crime, to deserve the punishment.

“Because, it’s wrong. The Church –” Crowley was stammering.

“Fuck right and wrong! Fuck the Church!” He yelled. All his frustration burst forth at once, leaving him breathless. 

Crowley looked like Aziraphale had grown a second head.

Aziraphale took a second and calmed himself. He didn’t know why Crowley had kissed him. He didn’t know if Crowley was backing away because he genuinely regretted it or if it was something else. But he knew, without doubt, if Crowley left at that moment, they’d never see each other again.

And that thought was more than he could bear.

“Crowley, my dear. Forget the Church. Forget guilt and shame. Why did you kiss me?” A thought struck him. “Is it because of Raphael?” The very thought turned his stomach. Was Crowley just lonely and missing the man he loved?

“Raph? What does he have to do with this?” He looked so adorably confused.

Aziraphale realised he was still desperately clutching Crowley’s arm. He let it go, mostly confident Crowley wouldn’t run. He put his hands in his lap, gripping them tightly together to stop them reaching out again.

“You care about him, don’t you?” He was trying to be tactful. Crowley knew he knew about his crush, but he suspected it was a sensitive issue. He was also afraid of the answer.

“I mean, yeah? We’re friends, I guess.” He shrugged, frowning. “Why?”

“Aren’t you – I mean, don’t you..?”

“What are you going on about?” He asked, somewhat frustrated.

“I thought you and Raphael were more than just friends.”

“Why would you think that?” His eyebrows had drawn together and his head tilted, looking down at Aziraphale like he'd started speaking Latin.

“He called you amante, at the party.”

Crowley went red and gave a pained smile.

“One of his little jokes, that’s all.”

“How is calling you his lover a joke?”

“He wasn’t calling me his lover.” He looked at him, hands on hips, eyebrows raised. He seemed to be waiting for Aziraphale to make some connection or other.

It took a few seconds, but finally he understood. “Oh! He discovered you had a crush and decided to tease you about it.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Well, who is it?” He asked.

If Aziraphale had thought Crowley’s eyebrows couldn’t climb any higher, he was wrong. His brows seemed impossibly, comically high and Crowley was blinking slowly at him. He shook his head, exasperated.

“You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale wanted to take offense at that. And he did scoff, but his brain couldn’t compute the insult properly over the noise buzzing in his head. He couldn’t think. His brain had flat lined. He couldn’t even be sure if he was still breathing.

“Me?” He croaked.

“Yeah, angel. You. I don’t go around kissing people at random.”

Aziraphale finally stood, his legs shaking. They stood scant inches away from each other, breathing heavily together. Aziraphale’s hand found Crowley’s arm again, significantly more gentle this time, and he leaned in slowly. He was relieved when Crowley met him halfway, kissing him back.

This time, he was expecting it. He expected the blinding light behind his closed eyelids, expected the warmth and softness of Crowley’s lips, expected his heart to almost bruise itself beating against his ribs.

But he didn’t expect the tears.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Crowley had pulled away again, but was holding his face in his hands. He brushed away the tears with his thumbs. It was tender and gentle. It made Aziraphale cry harder.

“Nothing, my dear. I’m fine,” He said through a weak smile.

“People who are fine don’t usually start crying.” He looked ready to leave any second, if Aziraphale said the word. His eyes were watching him carefully, almost caressing his face, looking for any sign for what he should be doing.

Aziraphale wanted to assure him, but he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s just... I’ve never felt like this before.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“Good. Great. Spectacular. But overwhelming. I never thought you’d return my feelings.”

“Return your feelings? Angel, I’ve been infatuated since we first met.”

His brain went offline again for a moment.

“You what?” He said, once his brain had rebooted.

“You were intriguing. You hated us new students, yet you volunteered to guide us. And you were too young to be a priest. And had a stupid name. I thought you must’ve been lying.”

“I don’t lie,” He objected. 

Crowley shot him an exasperated but fond look. “And then you volunteered to help me, even though I could see how much you hated it. You hated me.”

“You frustrated me. You still do.”

“So do you,” He replied, smiling.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that he felt creeping to the surface.

But he knew that this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He was being sent goodness knows where and even if he wasn’t, they couldn’t be together. It was impossible.

It hurt, but wasn’t a little bit of pain now better than a lifetime of grief? John and Peter might have loved each other, but the agony they went through was more than Aziraphale could take. And Crowley had been through too much pain already. Aziraphale never wanted to be the one to hurt him more, but he had no choice. He had to tell him he was leaving.

“Crowley, my dear –“

“Yes, angel?” He asked, smiling at him, golden eyes warm and inviting. He was so earth shatteringly beautiful It took Aziraphale’s breath away.

Crowley shuffled ever so slightly closer. His boots accidentally kicked a book out of the way, but again, Aziraphale hardly noticed. He placed his hands on Aziraphale’s waist, causing his blood pressure to rise dangerously fast, making him almost swoon. It felt nice, to be held, so gently, yet securely and possessively.

“I’ve had a bit of a long day. Do you mind if we pick this up another time?” It wasn’t a lie, but it still tasted like one. He was chickening out. He wasn’t usually a coward, but breaking the heart of the man he loved was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. He needed time.

“Of course.” He leaned in again, pressing a soft, suggestion of a kiss to his lips. It was more like the kiss of long-time partners, as one headed off to work, as if there had been thousands before, with thousands more to come.

It made Aziraphale’s heart throb painfully, but he masked it with a shy smile. Thankfully, Crowley pulled away without another word and left him with a cheeky grin and a promise of tomorrow.

‘ _God, what should I do?’_

* * *

He awoke with a start, immediately aware of the hammering at his door. Glancing at his phone, he groaned. It was 6am on a Saturday. Why would anyone be banging his door down so early?

He rolled out of bed reluctantly, knowing whoever was waking him was determined. The banging hadn’t stopped.

Grumbling and freezing, he stumbled to the door, still half asleep. He’d barely slept, both too busy reliving Crowley’s kisses and trying to plan how he’d tell him he had to go. He didn’t know which was worse. He’d finally been exhausted enough to fall asleep sometime around 4am.

He opened the door the slightest sliver and peered out, only to see the grouchy face of Father Michael. The urge to tell him to bugger off was tempting, but he stifled it in the nick of time.

“Good morning, Father,” He greeted as cordially as he could muster.

Father Michael continued to glare.

“Can I help you?” If he’d woken him just to stare at and annoy Aziraphale, he was doing a good job of it.

“Your new parish is expecting you on Monday. See that you’re packed and ready to go.”

He handed Aziraphale a slip of paper with a name and an address. Stumbling blindly back to his bed, he grabbed his phone and looked it up. It was a tiny church in the South Downs. It wasn’t too far away, but it was far enough to remind him he’d been banished.

He promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t change it, so he had to accept it. Staring at the paper, he felt bitterness rising in his chest, choking him.

‘ _God, why are you doing this to me?_ ’ He asked, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. God moved in mysterious ways, His will was not to be questioned, ineffable plans etc. Aziraphale’d been taught that all his life and he’d never once questioned.

Until Crowley.

It wasn’t so much that he doubted in God’s plans. It was more that he wished he knew why. He wished he knew why this was his test. And he wanted to know what God wanted him to do. Was turning his back on Crowley the right or wrong thing? He just wanted a sign.

He lay back down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He was tired in every way, but falling asleep again seemed impossible.

He needed to pack. He’d – maybe stupidly – thought he’d have more time or there’d be a last-minute hail Mary. Monday seemed too soon, like if he closed his eyes for a second, it’d be there to steal him away.

He grabbed his phone and sent a message to the group chat, before pulling himself up and grabbing his suitcase. He began to pack the necessities. He’d pack up everything else too, but he’d have to get his books shipped to him later. There was no way he was getting them all on the train with him.

Sometime later, he heard another knock at his door and he froze. He heard Crowley’s voice tentatively calling for him, but he just closed his eyes, stayed perfectly still and waited. Eventually he heard Crowley walk away and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He wanted nothing more than to let him in, let himself be held and kissed and loved. But he still didn’t have the words to tell him that he was leaving and they would never see each other again.

He pushed it out of his mind, focussing on carefully folding each piece of clothing and packing up the only life he’d known. 

* * *

Pepper, Michael, Anathema and Newt had gathered at his favourite restaurant – a fancy and expensive sushi place – at his behest.

He’d warned Michael to not tell the others why, since she’d heard about his new assignment from Frances. She’d been texting him incessantly since she’d found out. He’d had to turn off the vibration or his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. If he thought Frances had been enraged, it was nothing to the profanity laced threats and insults Michael was spewing. He prayed she didn’t say any of them to Gabriel’s face. Although he’d pay good money to be there if she did.

His friends greeted him with smiles and confusion.

“What’s the occasion?” Anathema asked. 

“Michael wouldn’t tell us anything,” Pepper chimed in, mock glaring at her. Michael just grinned back.

“We’re celebrating,” He began. He didn’t want to get into the specifics of all the ways it wasn’t a celebration. He just wanted, for one night, to pretend like he was finally getting everything he wanted.

“You’re being made a Cardinal?”

“You’re getting married?”

“You’re pregnant?”

They were all laughing, joking and the pang of how much he was going to miss them hit him right in his chest, like a dagger. Despite that, he kept his smile plastered on. 

“I’ve finally got a parish!” He announced, as happily and enthusiastically as he could muster. He hoped it hid the waver in his voice. But judging by the sympathetic look Michael shot his way, he knew she at least caught it.

“Wow! Finally! I’m so happy for you,” Anathema said, wrapping him in her arms. It wasn’t long before they were all hugging in one huge group hug. Even Newt, who seemed a little uncomfortable at the close physical contact with other humans that weren’t Anathema.

“Where is it? Will you still come to visit?”

“It’s in the South Downs. It’s a nice little parish. It seems cosy. I’ll come visit as often as I can, though I’ll probably be very busy.” He fought to keep his grin firmly in place, despite the lies. He knew he wouldn’t be able to visit much, if at all.

Michael quickly swooped in, asking for drinks orders. He gave her a grateful look. She shot a wink at him. 

* * *

The rest of the night went smoothly. They ate, drank and laughed. It felt wonderful to spend time with his friends. He didn’t let himself think about the fact it might be the last time.

They parted with hugs and kisses.

Only once Michael and Aziraphale had settled themselves into the backseat of a cab did he let himself feel the loss.

“You alright?” Michael asked.

He sighed, “I don’t know.”

She reached over and grabbed his hand. “Try not to think about the negatives. Aren’t you always the annoying one, telling everyone else to look on the bright side? We’ll all come visit you. And you’ll come visit,” She continued with a glare at the argument she knew he was waiting to interject with, “Regardless of what Gabriel says.”

“Michael, I need to tell you something.”

She looked concerned at the seriousness of his tone and gave his hand a squeeze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Crowley,” He began. He wasn’t sure what to say or even if he should. Was it better that their mistake was kept between them and forgotten? But his heart couldn’t bear the weight alone.

“What about him?”

“He – we kissed,” He murmured. 

“Oh my God!” She squealed.

He shushed her. The taxi driver had glanced back at them, but his eyes quickly returned to the road. Regardless, Aziraphale didn’t particularly want him listening in. 

“When?” She asked, significantly quieter.

“Yesterday.”

“And?” She prompted. Even in the darkness, he eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“And what?”

“What was it like?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because you love him?”

“So what? I’m leaving tomorrow,” He said, with a glance at his phone, which showed him it was just past midnight. The reminder of the deadline had his eyes trickling with tears, but he blinked them away.

“I know, but if this was your one chance to kiss –” She stopped. Something in his face must’ve been agonised enough to make her stall.

“You don’t have to, you know,” She whispered, changing tack.

“Don’t have to what?”

“You could choose to abandon the priesthood.” She shrugged.

He loved her. He did. But sometimes her jokes and flippant remarks weren’t what he needed.

“No, I can’t!” He objected as if the very idea was preposterous. As if he hadn’t considered it, lying in bed, trying to sleep and questioning his every belief – his entire life – to that point. But with the light of day came the realisation that he had a role to play and he’d already chosen it. He couldn’t back away now.

“Just look at Peter and John...”

Aziraphale threw his hands up in frustration. “Did everyone know about them but me?”

“I mean, it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?”

“What else am I missing? What else is so obvious that no one has ever bothered to tell me? Am I really that stupid?” The sound of Crowley’s voice, soft and warm, yet frustrated, calling him stupid. Was he? Was that what everyone thought of him?

“You’re not stupid, angel. You’ve always been so young and naive. But in a good way,” She rushed to assure him, “A pure, optimistic way.”

“I don’t want to be naive. I’m not an angel. I’m a man. And I’m sick of being treated like I’m different.”

The taxi pulled up in front of St Peter’s gates.

Michael paid him and they stumbled out.

“Listen, how about I stay with you tonight?” She asked.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off again.

“You’ve had a bit to drink and you’re upset. I’ll sleep on the floor and I’ll help you pack tomorrow. What do you reckon?”

The thought of going back to his half packed, cold and lonely room was a terrifying thought. Having Michael there to listen would help.

“Yeah. Alright. But you can take the bed.” He deserved to sleep on the cold, hard floor.

They snuck through the courtyard. It was late, all the lights were out, but they dared not make a sound. If Michael was found on seminary grounds again – and at night in the company of a priest – it wouldn’t be pretty. Gabriel would have her shipped to the middle of nowhere. Just like Aziraphale.

They made it to his room and he pulled out his keys. The jingle they made was quiet, but not quiet enough.

“Angel?” Came a concerned voice from down the hall. Crowley appeared, in a rumpled old threadbare Star Wars pyjama set. He’d obviously been waiting for him. He stopped dead at the sight of them.

“Oh. Hello, Sister,” Crowley greeted Michael coldly. His eyes travelled between them, clearly communicating suspicion.

And Aziraphale knew what it looked like. Sneaking a woman into his room late at night. Even if she was a nun, it didn’t look good.

“Do you still want me to stay?” Michael asked under her breath.

He was tempted to say yes. He didn’t know if he could face Crowley. He was tired, tipsy and he wanted to kiss him again, no matter how much he knew he couldn’t.

“No. Go. I need to sort this out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She looked at him, shrewdly assessing, but she eventually nodded.

“Alright. Goodnight, Z. Bye, Crowley.” She waved as she went.

Neither man reciprocated.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, who looked angry and hurt.

“She’s like a sister to you, huh?” His golden eyes had turned hard, squinting in the dim light of the hallway. He looked like a coiled snake, threatened and ready to strike.

“Crowley, I swear, it’s not like that.”

“What is it like then, angel?” 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An infamous scene, played out a little differently. And a dreaded departure.

“She’s my friend. My _best_ friend. And the closest thing I have to a sibling.” He didn’t know why he had to defend their relationship, but Crowley was staring daggers at him, demanding an explanation. Aziraphale hated to see such anger from the man who only 26 hours earlier, he’d been wrapped up in.

“Is that why she was coming for a sleepover?” He mocked.

The way he drawled the word ‘ _sleepover’_ had Aziraphale feeling uncomfortable. It made it sound sleazy and gross, when all he’d wanted was comfort.

“Crowley, please,” He begged. He was entirely sure what for. Everything had gotten rapidly out of hand. It felt like they’d fallen back through time to the start, when all their words had been meant to wound each other. It made him want to cry.

“What? You’re just mad you got found out?” Crowley had started advancing down the hall towards him, stalking him as if he were prey. Before he could get too close, Aziraphale knew he had to halt him.

“She knows about you and me. I told her.”

“You what?” He seemed genuinely surprised by that. Enough to make him stop.

“I needed someone to talk to. She _is_ my best friend. She was here to stay the night, yes. But not in my bed. Well, not with me, in the bed. I was going to sleep on the floor –” He was rambling. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop.

“Angel, calm down.” Crowley was suddenly beside him, placing a calming hand on his arm. His eyes were the same kind, gentle expression they had been after their kiss. All his vitriol had disappeared, and he was back to the Crowley that Aziraphale knew and loved…

 _Loved_.

His breath caught in his throat, preventing any further word vomit. But now Crowley was too close. Dangerously close.

“Don’t touch me,” He warned gently, taking a tiny, reluctant step back, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Oh God. You’re regretting this, aren’t you? I should’ve known. Why am I even surprised?” He gave a painful, humourless laugh. “God, I’m so stupid! No wonder you were avoiding me.”

“No! At least, not completely. Besides, you’re one to talk. You avoid me all the time! As soon as something gets too hard, you’re nowhere to be found!”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley faltered for a moment, with no defence to offer, before his anger flared back into life, “But don’t change the subject! Are you avoiding me because you don’t want to be with me?”

He didn’t know what to say. Was he regretting kissing him? Not really, except that leaving would’ve been easier if he’d never known the taste of his lips or the feeling of being held. If he’d never known love. He wished he could live in that moment, where they’d been pressed together, forever. But they couldn’t.

“Yes!” He yelled. At the pain that crinkled Crowley’s face, he shook his head and corrected himself. “No! I don’t regret it. I could never regret it. But we can’t be together.”

Crowley growled in frustration. “Why not?”

“Because!” He was backing away again as Crowley was advancing on him again. They were mirroring each other, like a dangerous, furious dance.

“Give me one reason, angel.”

“One? I can give you a hundred!”

“Not any that matter! Why, Aziraphale? Why?” Crowley threw his hands up in frustration. He was angry, but Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t hurt him. Still, he needed an answer. So, Aziraphale gave it to him.

“Because they’re sending me away!”

The silence of the hall was deafening. He was glad the other students hadn’t returned from their holidays yet. There was no way anyone, even the heaviest sleeper, could sleep through this.

“What?” Crowley asked, eyes wide and shocked.

“Gabriel – I mean the Archbishop – he assigned me a parish. Finally. I leave on Monday.”

“What? Why now?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He couldn’t tell him it was because of him. Or at least, partly because of him. It was hard enough without telling him how close they’d both come to being ruined. He wouldn’t let Crowley feel guilty for this. The guilt and shame were his and his alone.

“Can’t you say no? Just say no. Stay.” Crowley took another step towards him, hands out, palms up, as if begging for benediction or salvation. Something Aziraphale couldn’t give, either as a man or a priest. And he was no good at being either.

Aziraphale held up a hand and took another step back, shaking his head. “I can’t. Please, don’t ask that of me.”

“Why not?” Crowley asked, frustration creeping back into his tone.

Crowley seemed to think it was so easy, as if it wasn’t the eternal fate of their souls in the balance. Aziraphale just wanted him to understand, but he didn’t have any way to communicate it. These feelings were so new and foreign he couldn’t describe them even if he had a millennium to try.

“I just can’t.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Can’t you just let it go?”

“No! Last night, you kissed me. Didn’t that mean something to you?” His eyes were wide and imploring, even as he panted with rage and hurt.

Aziraphale didn’t blame him for being hurt. But he couldn’t admit that the kiss had changed him. It had undone and remade him. But while he had changed, the situation hadn’t.

“Does it matter? We can’t be together. That’s that.” He tried to make it sound final. But Crowley was having none of it. 

“Bullshit. Stop being a coward.”

“Don’t. I’m not. I’m being realistic. Not all of us can act like the world can go to hell.” His own frustration was rising. Crowley was acting like this was easy for him. Couldn’t he see how much he was hurting too?

“Well at least I’m not in denial about everything. Acting like everything is part of some great, God-given plan.” Crowley was back to mocking.

“It’s _the_ Great Plan, Crowley.” He was sick of Crowley constantly questioning God. And questioning him. He was making everything so much harder than it had to be.

“Great pustulent mangled bollocks to the Great Fucking Plan!” He yelled.

He gasped. “May you be forgiven.”

“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. I’m a failure, a nightmare, a _demon_ , remember?”

“You’re not, Crowley –”

“That’s easy for you to say, _angel_.” The endearment was as mocking and cruel as the first time he’d said it. “Everyone loves you. You’ve never done a single thing wrong in your life.”

Aziraphale knew he was just lashing out. He didn’t mean it. But it hurt. They’d come so far, only to end up here again.

“My dear, please. Don’t be like that.” Now he was reaching out, trying to soothe, to reassure, but Crowley took a stumbling step back.

“Don’t go acting all holier than thou.”

“I am holier than thou. I’m a priest, remember?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I remember,” He growled.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It means nothing.” He threw his hands up in defeat. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you. You've obviously made up your mind.”

He turned and began to walk away.

If this was the last time they’d ever see each other, it couldn’t end like this. Aziraphale couldn’t live with himself if this was the way they parted.

“Crowley...” He called desperately after him.

Crowley turned and glared at him. Waiting.

“Please. Don’t leave,” He said, voice cracking slightly. Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

“Why not? Why don’t we both go? We could leave together. Go away, leave all this behind,” Crowley said, almost pleading, gesturing at the seminary – at the life they’d chosen as priests.

“Go off together?” He repeated, tasting the words. It was tempting. The most tempting, like a ripe juicy apple, off limits but infinitely enticing. He almost wanted to reach for it...

But it was too much. He couldn’t leave his entire life, all his friends – his family – behind. He’d be excommunicated. This was the only life he’d known. He was a priest. It was who he was.

“Come on. I don’t belong here. And you don’t deserve this – this being treated like shit. They want us both gone. So, come with me. Give them what they want. And we can have what we want too. We can just be us.”

“There is no _us_ , Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.” He hated the look that took over Crowley’s face. It was hurt, humiliated and, worst of all, resigned. Crowley had been rejected so many times, and now Aziraphale was rejecting him too.

‘ _God, why?_ ’ He asked for the millionth time. He still received no answer.

“Right. Well then. Enjoy the rest of your life, Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s door slammed shut.

The tears finally fell.

* * *

He didn’t sleep. Or if he did, he couldn’t remember doing it. He climbed out of bed only a few hours after climbing in. He’d closed his eyes, but the pain in his heart meant he couldn't relax or rest, no matter how hard he tried.

He felt like a zombie as he shuffled around his room, the room he’d lived in for almost a decade. He packed his books, his knick-knacks and his memories.

It wasn’t until he went to pack the bookshelf that he remembered the card. He knew he should get rid of it once and for all. Tossing it would cleanse him of it and all it had represented.

Cleanse him of Crowley.

But he couldn’t. Instead he tucked it into his bible and packed it in his suitcase – the one he was taking with him immediately. He didn’t let himself dwell on the decision. He’d second guess himself and over analyse and he couldn’t do that right now or he’d completely break down.

He heard shuffling from down the corridor, from Crowley either coming or going. He wanted to open the door and... He wasn’t sure. Apologise? Kiss him? Beg forgiveness?

He ignored it.

Michael texted him, asking if he wanted some company or help packing. But he knew it was a bad idea. Crowley would no doubt see her, and he didn’t have the energy for another fight.

He didn’t have energy at all.

* * *

He only ventured out of his room to make his way over to the convent for his usual Sunday lunch. He was joined by John. It was a novel experience to have another man at the table with him, but he was glad to have him there. It felt right, to have his whole family together. For one last time.

They sat to eat, and Frances led them, as always, in saying grace. She paused at the end, smiling over at Aziraphale and added, “As you all know, our dear angel Aziraphale is joining his new congregation tomorrow. I just wanted to say, may God bless you and keep you and may your new home be everything you have ever wished for.” She was smiling, but he could see the tears in her eyes, the wobble of her chin and the shake of her hands.

She had always been his rock, so solid and strong. To see her moved to tears humbled him. And shamed him. It wasn’t a celebration, that he was leaving. Frances hadn’t told any of the other nuns why he was being sent away and he was glad. He wanted to pretend it was just a normal meal. Otherwise he might start crying.

It was also a wonderful, decadent meal. The nuns made all his favourite foods as a farewell gift. There were more desserts than there were people.

He was again sat beside Sister Mary.

“Are you excited? You must be excited, to have your own congregation.”

“Yes –“

“And in the South Downs? Is it nice there? I hear it’s nice there, though I’ve never been.”

“I think so,” He hedged. He’d never been either.

“Maybe I can visit you. Not that we get to travel much, as nuns. Maybe when the Mother Superior visits?”

He didn’t interrupt her, to tell her that the Mother Superior wouldn’t get to visit him any more than he’d be able to visit her. God didn’t take holidays, and neither did the clergy.

He was content to let her voice recede to the back of his mind, as a kind of white noise as he turned his attention to his meal. He tried to enjoy it, but it didn’t sit well with the stone that had taken up residence in his gut. He tried to eat and be merry, but he wasn’t convinced of his success.

Luckily, Frances, Michael and John were there to keep the conversation ticking along, that Aziraphale only had to smile and nod, occasionally adding a benign comment.

Before too long, all the food had been consumed and he couldn’t linger any longer. He still had so much to pack.

As he left, he bid all the nuns farewell. Many gave him hugs, along with kind words and smiles.

He took his time saying goodbye to Frances, John and Michael.

“I’m going to miss you, my angel,” Frances said, taking him into her arms.

He rested his head on hers. It felt like only yesterday that he’d been shorter than her. Although, she’d always seemed like she was taller than she really was. She was fierce and strong and seemed like an immovable force. He’d never serve God as well as she did.

“I’m going to miss you too, Z,” Michael added, joining the hug from behind him, squishing him between the two women.

He heard Frances give a long-suffering sigh, but he felt her envelop Michael too. Aziraphale glanced over at John, who was shaking his head at their antics. They shared a smile.

“You know that we’re always here if you need us.”

“Yeah. Don’t you dare ghost us.”

He laughed. Of course, he’d call the older two and text Michael, but it was never going to be the same. The distance would change their relationships irrevocably. They’d never again be the family he’d known, loved and relied on.

He’d miss them.

Michael pulled away, grumbling about seeming ‘too sentimental’. But Frances hadn’t let go just yet.

“You know, no matter what happens, no matter what you chose to do, I’m proud of you. I always have been, and I always will be,” She whispered in his ear. It was only just loud enough for him to hear.

He pulled back, looking at her. She gave a sad smile.

“Sometimes I worry we pushed you into the church, even if we didn’t mean to. And I’m not upset you chose this. I just want you to be happy.”

She had to know. Whether John or Michael had told her, he wasn’t sure. Or maybe she’d worked it out herself. She always could read him like a book. But no matter how she found out, she knew about Crowley. She was almost omniscient.

“I am happy. I promise,” He said, doing his best to sound like he meant it.

She just gave him another squeeze and a customary kiss on the forehead.

He left the convent feeling full and yet empty.

* * *

It was reminiscent of the day he first met Crowley – waiting outside St Peter’s gates in the early morning. In fact, it was almost an entire year since that day, with the new school year starting in a week.

‘ _What a difference a year makes’_ , he thought to himself. Looking back, he barely recognised himself. He’d been so young and naive.

This time though, instead of waiting for students, he waited for the taxi to take him to the train station and towards his new parish.

Frances and Michael had offered to wait with him, but he didn’t want a sad goodbye. They’d hugged and kissed him goodbye at the convent the day before. It was enough.

The cab was taking a long time to arrive. He checked his watch again and sighed. He hated being late. He’d left plenty of time for him to get to the station before the train, but every second wasted was another second he’d feel anxious. This was his new home and he wanted to make a good first impression.

When he looked up again, he was startled by the sudden sight of Crowley standing in front of him. He looked dishevelled and as tired as Aziraphale felt. It seemed neither of them slept.

“Angel, I’m sorry. I apologise. I was angry and upset. I didn’t mean what I said,” He said in one, rushed breath. Before Aziraphale could so much as blink, he was continuing, “You forgive me, don’t you?”

He gave a jerky nod, still not sure what was happening.

“Good. Then let’s go.”

“Go?” He asked haltingly, as if he’d never heard the word before.

“We can still run away together. It’s a big world out there. No one will find us. I promise.” He looked so young, so honest, so beseeching. So perfect.

“Crowley,” He softened. Crowley still wanted him. He was putting himself out there again, even after Aziraphale had hurt him before.

He wanted to say yes. He was losing the will and energy to argue. He heard Frances’ words in his mind, that he could choose. But nothing had changed. He’d made his choice. He was too stubborn to turn back now.

“You’re being ridiculous,” He scoffed, trying to sound authoritative. But he softened again, imploring. “I know this hurts, but you have to believe me. I’m doing the right thing.”

“No. You’re doing what you _think_ is the right thing. But you don’t know that. You’re just trusting in God, but God isn’t making you do this! God hasn’t _spoken_ to you!” He was yelling, but unlike before, it wasn’t fury, it was desperation – even if he tried to hide it. Aziraphale knew him too well. His eyes were wide and imploring.

It was breaking Aziraphale’s heart more every second. But he knew his course and he couldn’t stray from it.

“No, He hasn’t. But if I can just keep praying and keep believing, this will all make sense. And it’ll stop hurting. I know it will. He’ll guide us.” He had to believe it or he’d go mad. Or he’d fling himself into Crowley’s arms and never let him go again.

“That's not gonna happen. How can you still be foolish enough to believe that?” He sounded so sure, that Aziraphale had no answer.

After a few silent moments, Crowley shrugged. “Right. Well. I’m leaving here. I’m packing up and I’m going, and I’ll forget all about you and this place and when I’m off living my life, I won’t even think of you!”

Crowley stormed off as quickly as he appeared. Aziraphale watched him leave, not sure he shouldn’t chase him. He took an aborted step – which was more of a stumble – forward, before he stopped again. He was saved by his indecision by the honk of a horn. He wasn’t sure when the cab had pulled up next to him. He hadn’t noticed. The window of the car was down, and the driver was watching him with a sympathetic expression.

“I’ve been there. Trust me, you’re better off without him.”

He didn’t reply, just hoisted his bag into the boot and himself into the backseat and watched as St Peter’s disappeared behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so close to having finished the entire story now. It's going to be 22 chapters in all.   
> Did you guys like my take on the bandstand and "I'm talking off without you" scenes? Are you as heart broken as the boys are? I know I am.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale arrives at his new home – the parish of St Anthony's.

By the time his second taxi of the day pulled up outside the tiny church of St Anthony's – and thank you Father Michael for _that_ lovely irony – Aziraphale was exhausted. He felt like he hasn’t slept in a week. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. He couldn’t honestly remember the last full night’s sleep he’d had.

But as it was, it was barely midday and he was ready for a nap.

He was greeted at the church door by a smiling man, who looked a lot younger than Aziraphale had expected. The man was maybe late 50’s to early 60’s at most. Aziraphale had thought his new colleague would be in their 70’s or 80’s, on the cusp of retirement, so he could inherit the church on their departure. This had him taken aback. Why was he sent here of all places?

“You must be Aziraphale,” The man greeted with a firm handshake. “I’m Jacob. It’s lovely to meet you.”

He mumbled some greeting back. He knew he was being rude, but Jacob’s smile didn’t waver. He looked as if he never stopped smiling. But it was genuine – Aziraphale could see it in his serene blue eyes. He had the kind of calmness around him that Peter had always radiated. It put him a little more at ease.

“Please, come in. Let’s have a cup tea and then I can show you around.”

Jacob seemed content to let Aziraphale be quiet and reserved, doing most of the talking as they toured the church and surrounding village. It was small community and their meandering pace had them to the village and back within two hours. Extraordinary, given they were also stopped often on their tour by residents saying hello. They seemed excited to have a new priest, but then, Aziraphale thought that not much must happen in such a tiny place as this. The sight of a new priest must have been the most exciting thing to happen in months, if not years.

Aziraphale did his best to smile and remember names, faces and details, but his mind never got in the cab with him. It was still waiting outside the gates of St Peter’s. Still watching as Crowley walked away.

He kicked himself for thinking of Crowley again. He was supposed to be moving on and starting a new life. It was what he’d chosen. But his mind had other ideas. 

He shook his head and refocused on Jacob’s explanation of their weekly schedules.

“Choir practices every Tuesday evening. I hope you have a better voice than me, though it could hardly be worse!” He was joking, as Aziraphale struggled to listen through his distraction.

Aziraphale gave a weak laugh in reply.

Jacob had set up the second bedroom in the presbytery. It was a tiny room, perhaps even smaller than his room at the seminary had been. But Aziraphale was a simple man, who didn’t need for much. As long as he could fit his books in, he’d be happy. He knew he didn’t have to worry about a lack of reading material though. The presbytery had more bookshelves than it could reasonably fit. Jacob confessed he was a reader, more than a TV or movie watcher. It endeared the man to Aziraphale even more.

In other circumstances, Aziraphale thought this might’ve been his image of a perfect mentor, a perfect home, a perfect church and a perfect congregation. He should be happy. Or at least content.

After an early dinner, during which Jacob regaled Aziraphale with stories of the people within the congregation, they retired. Aziraphale sat alone in his new sanctuary, his new home, and pulled out his bible. He found, in times of great stress, he felt comforted to read the words and reconnect with his purpose. He always managed to find at least few words of guidance amongst the scriptures.

He’d forgotten he’d stored Crowley’s card in the inside sleeve, which fell out, face up on his lap.

For the first time since his fight with Crowley, he let himself cry. 

* * *

Aziraphale settled into life as a parish priest slowly. 

St Anthony’s congregation was a small, but dedicated bunch. The residents were all about as unique as it was possible to be. There was Mrs Harrison, an old widow, who enjoyed baking, always bringing in cakes and slices for Jacob and Aziraphale to eat. She was a member of the choir and never missed a practice. She also collected masquerade masks – the bigger and more hideous, the more she loved them. Then there was Mr Taylor, who was the head of a community watch group and overly litigious. He also collected old newspapers and did second world war re-enactments in his spare time. There was an American ambassador and his wife and child, who was bizarrely named Warlock. Even the kids here were strange – and not just their names. One of the 11-year-olds collected, bred and won awards for his tropical fish.

Aziraphale liked them all. They were mostly harmless, if a little kooky. But he spent a lot of his time reading, instead of being out and about. Jacob let him be, assuming – correctly – that he was an introvert. As long as he fulfilled his role as priest and attended what he needed, the older priest seemed content to let him be. He was grateful for it. 

And Jacob was as good a priest as Aziraphale could’ve hoped to be working beside. He cared for everyone, giving his time selflessly, listening to each member of their flock and never complaining. He did other voluntary charitable things too, like run free computer classes for the older folks in the community, so they could communicate with their relatives who lived far away. He was funny, sweet, charming, and clever. He also wasn’t too serious, taking the time to relax and share a joke. Aziraphale felt an instant and strong bond with him. They had a lot in common.

It certainly didn’t hurt that he reminded Aziraphale of Peter and was exactly the kind of priest he wanted to be. In a way it helped, and yet didn’t help, to have Jacob as his colleague. Jacob was just another model of a perfect priest. Aziraphale was learning a lot from him, but he knew he couldn’t live up to his legacy. He already felt the weight of Peter and John’s expectations and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to carry it. Jacob’s example was just another expectation he could never live up to. Frances’ words helped him to shoulder the load...

But his heart wasn’t quite in it anymore. He wanted it to be, but the enthusiasm he’d once had was gone.

Still, he did his job the best he could. Even if it was now a job in his mind, rather than a calling. He hoped, given enough time, the passion would come back.

He was glad Jacob hadn’t known him before. There was no way someone who’d known him before could miss the fact he moved through life like a zombie. He went through the motions, acting the part, doing everything he was supposed to. But inside, he was numb.

* * *

Six months into his new assignment, he still hadn’t regained his footing. He felt like he was stumbling in the dark, not sure which path to take. Or even if there was a path at all.

Every night, he escaped to his room and fought the urge to call Crowley. Or maybe ask Michael if she’d seen or spoken to him. He was desperate for any news of the other man, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. It would feel like an admission of failure. He was glad that no one had volunteered any information about him since he’d left – not even Michael, though he knew it must be killing her to stay silent. But he appreciated the effort. It was for the best.

He wasn’t happy. But he wasn’t unhappy either. He truly believed everything would be fine. Eventually. 

* * *

The church of St Anthony had a garden. It wasn’t a big garden and it didn’t take a lot of upkeep. It was peaceful, like the rest of the village, but it was also secluded and private. As the weather began to get warmer, Aziraphale began to spend some time out in it, in the sun. He wasn’t much of a gardener, but he did his best, weeding and pruning. He’d come to enjoy it.

He understood why Crowley liked plants and tending them. It was relaxing and fulfilling, to see something bloom and prosper because of him and his care. It was what he hoped he could achieve one day with his parish.

Strangely, gardening took his mind off Crowley, like very few other things did. Even reading reminded him of Crowley, since he’d spent hours reading beside him, being given the gift of audio books and discussing books of every shape, size and genre.

And sometimes the strangest things reminded him of Crowley. A word, a smell, a feeling and all of a sudden his heart would ache for him anew. 

But in the garden, he could focus on the plants. He could appreciate God’s designs and the beauty of nature.

“This garden has never looked so immaculate in the almost 30 years I’ve been here,” Jacob’s soft voice interrupted his reverie.

“Oh, Jacob! You scared me.” He gave a forced chuckle.

“I didn’t mean to. I was just wondering if perhaps we could have a chat?”

Aziraphale looked at Jacob’s unusually serious face. His never-ending smile had dimmed. Aziraphale began to worry. Had he done something wrong?

“Of course.” He stood from the garden bed and dusting his hands off.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

They ambled towards the outskirts of the village slowly. Jacob didn’t seem in a hurry to speak and every second was making Aziraphale more nervous.

“Is everything OK?” Aziraphale finally asked.

“I’m not sure.” Jacob sounded somewhat contemplative. 

_'That wasn’t a very enlightening answer',_ he thought. But he waited. Jacob would share what was on his mind eventually.

“I spoke to John this morning,” Jacob said, as they finally reached the outer limits of the village. He hopped over one of the fences into a field. Aziraphale didn’t know who the field belonged to, but it was probably fine to visit if Jacob was so comfortable with it, so he climbed over the fence, significantly less gracefully than Jacob. He needed to practice his fence-jumping skills, if this was a rural pastime. He’d gotten fitter, just wandering around the village and up and down the many hills surrounding it. He was still soft though and he probably always would be.

“You know John?” Aziraphale hadn’t known that Jacob still talked to people at St Peter's, though he knew it was where he’d studied too.

They found a nice patch of grass that seemed lush and green and Jacob sat. Aziraphale joined him, slightly concerned about grass stains on his trousers, but deciding to throw caution to the wind anyway. 

“I do. He came to live at the seminary in my last year as a student. He and Peter both taught me a lot. They are – were – good men. I was sad to hear about Peter. He was a great man and a wonderful priest.” 

“He was.” He still had no idea where the conversation was heading, but a thought suddenly occurred. “Is John alright?” 

Again, the fear of losing a father struck him, suddenly and like a punch to the solar plexus. But he’d spoken to John only a few days ago. If he was sick, surely he’d have said something then? 

“He’s fine. He’s just worried about you. He says you haven’t been yourself since you’ve come here.” It wasn’t a question, but it gently encouraged an answer. 

“I’m just settling in, that’s all.” He tried not to sound too defensive.

“Are you sure? You know you can talk to me. About anything.” 

It sounded far too knowing for Aziraphale’s liking. Did he know he’d been banished here in disgrace? Did he know about Crowley?

“What did John say?” He tried not to sound too accusing or suspicious. But at the appraising look Jacob gave him, he wasn’t certain he’d succeeded. 

“Nothing of consequence.” He waved off his concern. “He just wants you to be happy. Are you?”

“I am,” He stated. Then backtracked. “I’m trying to be.”

“I know I’m not John, or Peter. But I’m a good listener. I don’t judge,” He paused, before giving Aziraphale a sort of conspiratorial grin. “I won’t even tell Him.” He glanced upwards. 

“It’s not Him I’m worried about.”

“I promise, anything you tell me will stay between us. I won’t tell another soul.”

He trusted Jacob. And he deserved to know why Aziraphale was so quiet and hadn't been performing his job like he should. He owed him an explanation. It didn't make it easy to say though. 

“I... I had someone. Someone that I cared about, back at the seminary. I fell in love.”

“Oh,” Jacob chuckled, “No wonder they sent you here.”

“Why?” He hadn’t thought Jacob would find his problem amusing. He thought maybe he’d be disappointed or angry. Never in a million years did Aziraphale expect laughter. 

“I was the same as you, when I came to St Anthony's. I always thought it was funny – being sent to St Anthony’s, as a lost soul. St Anthony, the patron saint of lost things – and people.” 

“I thought that too.” And that Crowley was an Anthony. It was hard not to think of him when his name was everywhere Aziraphale looked. Not that he ever called Crowley ‘Anthony’. He knew Crowley wouldn’t appreciate it if he tried. 

“I’d met a girl too, at the seminary.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.” He didn’t want to drag up bad memories or make him talk about something painful. Even the thought of Crowley still caused his heart to lurch. He missed him every second. It never stopped aching. 

“I've never told anyone, besides one other person. I think it might be nice to finally talk about it.” He seemed to take a moment, taking a deep breath before he started. “She was like a whirlwind, sweeping into my life. She was young and beautiful and funny. Oh, she made me laugh.” He paused.

“Her name was Miranda.” Jacob's voice caressed the name, savouring it as if it were a fine wine. 

“How did you meet?” He asked. 

“I was only six months away from graduation when we met. She’d come to the Church for help. Her mother had died, and her dad had never been in the picture. She needed support. She was only 21 and had no other family. She’d inherited her mum’s house, but she’d never been alone before, always caring for her mother, who'd been sick her whole life. She didn’t have anyone to turn to. She was lost and lonely. And so was I. I was different from the other students and I never really fit in.”

“John and Peter took Miranda under their wings immediately, making sure she was fed and clothed and safe. They always did love taking lost children in. If they’d ever quit the Church and married, I think they would’ve adopted a brood.” He grinned at Aziraphale, before the smile fell again. “She didn’t have anyone her own age. I mean, I was 27 or 28 at the time, but that was a lot closer than the mid 50’s of John and Peter. We became friends.”

Aziraphale thought back to his own life at the seminary. He’d been content. But he hadn’t been happy. He’d done his study, volunteered and seen his friends only rarely. He hadn’t had anyone at the seminary, besides John and Peter, that he’d called friends. And even then, John and Peter had been more like guardians, rather than peers — just like they’d been to this girl. 

And then Crowley came along. 

“At first, we were just friends. But as time went on, we became closer. Too close. She was unfathomably beautiful and sweet, and I’d never met anyone else like her. I still haven’t.” His eyes had grown misty and he looked over the countryside, as if not seeing it. The smile on his face was as wistful as his tone. He ran his hand through his curls distractedly. 

He must’ve really cared about her. 

“I knew it was wrong, but I loved her.”

“But you became a priest anyway. Why?” Aziraphale asked. Jacob seemed happy with the life he’d chosen. Maybe Aziraphale could be too. Eventually. 

“I was sent here. And I never saw or spoke to her again. I wasn’t allowed to. I was scared of what the Church – of what Gabriel – would do if he found out. The priest I was working with was an old friend of the Archbishop. I felt watched. One toe out of line and I thought I’d be shipped off on a mission to the middle of nowhere.”

The story... It was too familiar. So familiar it sent a jolt of lightening through his body. It was almost the same story as his parents. Or, so Gabriel had said. He wasn’t sure he believed him. 

Still, he was curious. How many priests had done the same? Could it be true? Was Jacob his actual, biological father? 

But the details weren’t quite right. The ages, the fact she wasn’t homeless, just friendless... It didn’t quite fit. Was Gabriel wrong? Was Jacob misremembering? Or was there another priest out there who shared his DNA with Aziraphale? 

Or was it all a lie? Did it even matter? Aziraphale always said he didn’t care who his biological parents were. Jacob was like a father to him, whether they were related or not. Just the same as John and Peter. 

He had too much to think about without adding this on top.

But he had to ask, “You don’t tell Gabriel..?”

“No. As far as Gabriel knows, you’re perfectly happy here. And he’ll never hear any different from me.”

Aziraphale gave a sigh of relief. He’d wondered why he hadn’t heard from either Father Michael or the Archbishop since he’d arrived. But of course, they wouldn’t talk to him. Why ask him, when they could spy instead? 

“Do you know what happened to Miranda?” 

“I looked her up a few years ago online. I don’t know why, after so long, but I think I would’ve always wondered otherwise. She’s married now. She has a family. And friends. She seems happy. I’m happy for her.”

Would Aziraphale look up Crowley 30 years from now? Or would he always wonder? 

“What happened with you and your girl?” Jacob asked, thankfully interrupting his thoughts. 

He hesitated. Should he tell the truth? He’d not come out to anyone, besides Michael. John, Frances and Gabriel had all just guessed. Maybe Jacob had guessed as well? Besides, he said he wouldn’t judge. 

“It wasn’t a girl. It was a student at the seminary.”

Jacob looked surprised for a moment, before he nodded. “I see.”

It didn’t sound either accepting or judgmental, so Aziraphale didn’t know how to continue. Luckily, Jacob kept talking.

“He must be a very exceptional young man, to have made you question your calling. John said you’d always been a model priest.” 

“He is certainly something,” He sighed. How did one describe Crowley? Or at least, how did one describe Crowley without mentioning his stubbornness, his arrogance, his anger and his hurt? Because they were as big parts of him as his gentleness, his sweetness, his caring and his humour. It was just that he hid the good behind the bad. He wore it like armour. If only he'd let people see...

“Aziraphale, I’m going to propose something. You can feel free to say no. You can tell me to mind my own business. I won’t be too offended.”

Aziraphale was both intrigued and nervous, as he asked, “Alright… What’s the proposition?”

“You skipped half of your year off between university and joining the seminary. I propose you take the second six months you didn’t take before and figure out exactly what it is you want. If, after the six months is done, you decide to come back, your place will be waiting. If not, that’s your choice.”

“I can’t afford to take time off.” He was frugal – except when it came to buying books – but with such a pitiful salary, he hardly had any savings. Six months without pay, or taking what he had of accrued leave, would leave him destitute. 

“I won’t tell anyone you’re gone.” 

“That’s lying and stealing from the Church!” He objected. 

“Isn’t that what you were falsely accused of doing anyway?” That comment confirmed that he did know more of why Aziraphale was here at St Anthony’s than he’d previously let on. 

“Yes… But I didn’t actually do it!”

“I know you didn’t. That anyone would think you would is absurd. But… Do it now. Make the punishment fit the crime. You’re a good man, Aziraphale. But even saints need to be a little bit naughty sometimes. No one is perfect and you’ll just drive yourself insane trying.”

His idols, the people he’d always looked up to as perfect – John, Peter and Jacob – they’d all done things wrong. They’d all kept secrets and broken the rules. Even Frances was prideful and envious at times. Aziraphale held himself to the standard of their images in his mind. But those images weren’t real. They’d been shattered.

“Can I think about it?” 

“Of course, you can. Just don’t think too long, or you’ll miss your chance.” 

* * *

Later that night, alone in his room, surrounded by books of knowledge and faith, he found himself completely lost. He didn’t know what to think and there wasn’t any research that could give him an answer. 

He thought it was strange, that he should end up here, with someone who had followed the same path as him. Looking at the three men he’d considered like fathers to him – John, Peter and now Jacob – he couldn’t help but wonder if any priest was as chaste as they were supposed to be. But then his thoughts turned to Gabriel and he huffed a laugh. Gabriel was too uptight to fall in love or sleep with somebody – no matter if the nuns thought him handsome or not. 

And the fact that his parents – whoever they were – had apparently broken the rules, had done what he’d done too… 

Was he fated to make the same mistakes? Whether it was nature, nurture or God’s Great Plan, it looked like he couldn’t escape it. 

Was this all a sign? Was he fighting against the inevitable?

‘ _God, please. Show me the way. What do you want me to do?_ ’

But no sign appeared to him. Sometimes, he felt like God had forgotten him. He used to feel so connected, so loved and so entirely sure. 

Maybe some time away would do him good. 

* * *

“Jacob?” He said, joining his at the breakfast table.

Jacob loved food almost as much as Aziraphale did and, breakfast being the most important meal of the day, he always made them a delicious spread every morning. Frances would ask if he was eating well. He was happy to reply that he was. Jacob was a fantastic cook.

“Yes?” He asked, looking up from his own meal. 

“I’ve thought about your offer. And while I appreciate it, I can’t in good conscience just pack up and leave for six months.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Aziraphale barrelled on. 

“But, you’re right. I need a break. I’ve decided I’ll take a month or two and use up my leave. And then I’ll be back.”

“If you say so.” He wore a knowing smile, but Aziraphale ignored it. 

Everyone had moments of doubt. No doubt he’d be desperate to return within the week. 

* * *

“Hello, Pepper.” 

“Hey, Zira! What’s up?” 

“I was wondering – or rather hoping – I could come and stay with you for a little while?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Of course, my door is always open, you know that.” 

He felt a little bit like one of her clients, with nowhere else to stay. The seminary and convent were ruled out for obvious reasons. And he'd rather not pay for a hotel if he could avoid it. 

Pepper didn’t ask questions. She always said, if someone had something to share, they’d share it when they were ready. 

He wasn’t ready yet. 

He hadn’t been entirely certain that heading back to London was a good idea. He had contemplated a trip further afield. Maybe Wales. Or France. It had been far too long since he’d crossed the channel. He could definitely do with some delicious French food. 

But the purpose of his ‘vacation’ wasn’t to sightsee, spend money or satisfy his cravings. It was to reconcile himself with God and his chosen course. 

Perhaps being in familiar surroundings would help remind him of why he’d become a priest in the first place. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is back in London and has to face himself honestly. What does he want? Is he brave enough to make his choice?

The first week, he barely left Peppers tiny flat. He’d taken to wearing his pyjamas for the majority of the day, while Pepper was out at the shelter, only showering and dressing just before she got home. He’d never been so slothful before, even as a lazy teen. 

Pepper had suggested inviting Newt and Anathema around for dinner one night, but he’d politely declined. He hadn’t yet told anyone else about his being back in the city. He thought he owed it to Frances for her to be the first (besides Pepper, who he’d only told because he needed a place to stay).

Pepper hadn’t suggested anything else and they spent the week discussing nothing of consequence. They talked about books, movies and TV shows. They pointedly didn’t discuss any people, places or feelings. It was comfortable, but it felt like a lie.

He gathered together his courage and called Frances on the 8th day.

“My darling angel! It’s been too long since you called. How are things down south?” She greeted.

The guilt hit him like a lorry going 70 in a 50 zone. He'd been avoiding everyone, while trying to pretend everything was fine. But it was time to face the music. 

“I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong?”

Damn her ability to see and hear everything, even through a phone.

“I’m having a bit of a holiday, up here in London. I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course! You don’t have to ask. Why are you in London?”

“Can we talk about it over lunch?”

There was a very heavy silence. He fidgeted with the draw string on his pants, waiting.

“Alright. Meet at La Petite Creperie at noon? Should I bring Michael?”

He knew she was asking for his benefit. They’re lunches had always been a special treat, just the two of them. She obviously knew that Michael knew more than she did about what was going on with him. But he hadn’t even told Michael he was back. He wasn’t sure if Pepper had let her know or not, but she wasn’t banging down the door, so he guessed not. 

“No. It’s better just the two of us, like old times. I’ll see you there.” The knot in his stomach loosened. He’d rung her. That was a step in the right direction.

Now he just had to tell her the whole story. How bad could that be?

The knot tightened again. 

* * *

One of the things about Frances was, she was chronically early. She’d instilled in Aziraphale a need to be everywhere before the appointed time. But as early as he was, she was always earlier.

So, it was a sign of how nervous he was that he arrived at the cafe before her. He was half an hour early and ordered a hot chocolate, before realising he couldn’t possibly eat or drink with the knot in his gut. Instead, he watched it grow colder, occasionally stirring it, if only to keep himself occupied. 

Frances arrived at a quarter two and clearly looked concerned at his having beaten her there.

“My darling,” She kissed his forehead before sitting across from him and staring at him intently, “What’s wrong?”

He was hoping they'd work up to this, but perhaps it was best to get it over and done with quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

“Father Jacob has given me a few months off.”

The shock was written all over her as she asked, “Why?”

“Well, it’s a funny story really. I’m sure you’ll laugh,” He paused and amended to, “Or maybe not.” He honestly wasn’t sure how she’d react.

She didn’t reply, but was still watching him, observing his every movement.

“I wasn’t _entirely_ truthful when I told you why I was being sent to St Anthony's…” He trailed off. ‘ _I fell in love with a man’_ was hard to say and contained at least two things she might object to. 

“I know,” She sighed. 

“You do?” What did she think she knew? Did she actually know?

“Aziraphale, I know you. I know when you’re upset. And when you’re lying.” 

He flushed at that. He thought he’d improved at it, but evidently not. 

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“What should I have said? John told me he’d talked to you. I knew you’d told Michael. I couldn’t have told you anything you didn’t already know. I thought about talking to Crowley, but Michael told me in no uncertain terms that if I tried, it wouldn’t go well for either of us and would do more harm than good.”

She had taken his hand in his, squeezing it. He took comfort in it. She hadn’t yelled or been disgusted by him. It was already going better than he thought it might. 

“What would you have said to him?” He asked. 

She laughed, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought it through that far.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” He replied. Crowley would’ve been scared off. As much as kissing him had stoked the fire inside him, he couldn’t regret it. It had made his life harder, but it had made life worth living. Just like Crowley, it was an enigma of opposites and had turned his life upside down. 

“Me too.” 

They lapsed into silence. The waiter arrived, clearly having been waiting for them to pause their rather intense conversation. 

Aziraphale didn't blame him. 

“You’re not angry?” He asked, once the waiter had walked away again. 

“Not at all. I wish you’d come to me sooner, but I don’t blame you. I just want you to be happy.” 

“Thanks, Frances.” 

The tension had mostly dissipated now, now All his cards were on the table. He could breathe freely again. 

“So, what’s this holiday about then?” 

“It’s not really a holiday. It’s a break. To think. To find my feet again.” 

“To see Crowley?” Her eyes were watching him shrewdly. 

“I don’t know. I’m still not sure what to do.” 

“You know he’s left the seminary," She said, casually stirring her tea. But her eyes were still on him, waiting to see his reaction. 

He didn't disappoint. 

“He what?!” Aziraphale had sacrificed himself to keep Crowley in the seminary. Now what was Crowley going to do? Where was he? Was he safe? How would he find him, if he wasn’t at the seminary? Not that he had decided to find him… 

“I assumed Michael or Pepper would’ve told you.”

“I asked her not to mention him. I thought it would be easier that way.” He thought, rather optimistically, that not hearing about him would stop himself from thinking or wondering about him. It had been a spectacular failure. All it had done was make him wonder more. 

“He left not long after you. I assume that it is not a temporary holiday like yours.” 

“It’s not a holiday, not really. It’s the second half of my gap year. Jacob thought it might be a good idea, to clear my head.” 

“I agree with him,” She said, surprising him. 

“You’re alright with me taking time off?”

“I want you to be sure. I never needed you to go into the Church, Aziraphale. I’m not upset or surprised you did. It was what you wanted.”

‘ _It was what you wanted_.’ Was it still what he wanted? Or had this infatuation tempted him away? 

“Thanks, Frances,” He sighed. He’d finally gotten it off his chest and she hadn’t been mad. She was clearly disappointed, at least a little bit. 

Their food arrived and, now he’d relieved his conscience, he found his appetite had returned with a vengeance. 

They ate their meal with talk of St Anthony’s, Jacob and everything he’d missed since he’d gone away. It felt good to be back, no matter how temporary. 

* * *

“You talked to your mum today, yeah?” Pepper asked, collapsing on the couch beside him. She worked too hard, always had. 

“Yes, I spoke to Frances.” He didn’t mind Pepper calling her his mum. After all, she pretty much was. He loved her like he would a mother. He just hoped Pepper never called her that in Frances’ earshot. He didn’t know how Frances would take that. 

“Great, because Michael’s coming over tonight.” 

He sighed fondly. Michael was so predictable. Of course she was dying to catch up on the gossip. No doubt she and Frances had talked about their lunch and, if anything, he was surprised Michael hadn’t been knocking on the door already. 

As he thought it, a fast, demanding knock came at the door. 

“I suppose I’ll get it,” He laughed. 

“Z! Why didn’t you tell me you were back? I’ve missed you,” She said, enveloping him in a hug so tight he couldn’t breathe. 

“I’ve missed you too,” He croaked. The tears were flowing before they pulled away, mere seconds later. 

“Alright, tell us _everything_.”

So, he did. They sat and shared a few bottles of wine and discussed his love life, something he never would’ve expected in a million years. Pepper hadn’t known all the details, but he and Michael filled her in. Michael chimed in when she felt he wasn’t being dramatic enough, which was often. And while she hadn’t been there for the kiss, she added some comments there too. 

“It sounds so romantic!” She sighed.

“It wasn’t that romantic. It was hardly a kiss at all, really.” He blushed, like he hadn’t relived it a million times since. For someone so uninterested in love and romance, Michael loved living vicariously through him. He didn't really mind, even as he grumbled at her to stop. 

“And now, Jacob thought I should take some time out and get myself back into a better space. I’ll probably head back in a month or so.”

“Are you going to see Crowley?” Michael asked eagerly. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he’d even want to see me or take my call, after the way we left it. And even if he did, I don’t know where he is. He left the seminary.”

It wasn't entirely his decision and he wouldn't blame Crowley for hating him. After the way he'd handled everything, he hated himself. 

He was filled with doubts. 

“We know.” Pepper replied. She and Michael shared a look that seemed to be a conversation. He watched them with interest. Eventually, Pepper turned back to him. 

“He’s still working at the shelter.” 

“He is?” That shocked him. He’d thought once he’d quit the seminary, he’d have given up the charity work. He hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled about having to do volunteering. 

“Yeah. He comes in every week, like clockwork.”

‘ _Has he said anything about me? Is he alright?_ ’ He was desperate to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“Oh,” Was what he rather intelligently said instead. 

“He seems... Unhappy,” Pepper added hesitantly. 

“Oh,” He said again. He was trying to process too many emotions and thoughts at once.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’d mind a call.” 

* * *

Aziraphale stared at his phone. It sat dark and unmoving on his lap. He wanted to pick it up and call, but once he opened that Pandora's box, he wasn’t sure what to expect. 

He startled when it vibrated suddenly, lighting up and showing a new message. His heart leapt, until he saw it was a message from Michael.

‘Have you called him yet???’

He groaned. He shouldn’t have told Pepper and Michael he’d decided to call him. It was the decision of too much wine and peer pressure from both women. Michael had gotten her hopes up for a loving reunion and he was afraid the truth would be rather more disappointing. Which was why he was hesitant to pick up the phone. 

‘Not yet.’

“Come on, Aziraphale. It’s just Crowley. What’s the worst that could happen?” He said out loud to himself. He instantly wished he hadn’t, when a plethora of things that could go wrong flooded his mind. 

‘ _God, please, give me strength to talk to him and not break down. Let him not be too furious at me and listen to what I have to say. I just want him to be alright._ ’ He thought it was an impossible prayer, but he had to ask anyway.

‘ _Oh, and please let him pick up the phone_ ,’ He added.

Crowley may well have deleted and/or blocked his number. Even if he hadn’t, there was a decent chance he wouldn’t answer anyway. Why would he, after everything?

He grabbed his phone and hit the call button before he had a chance to think too hard about it. 

It rang. 

And rang. 

And kept ringing. 

Each ring was like a step closer to the edge of a very tall cliff. He was peering over the edge and holding his breath. Just when he thought it might go to message bank, Crowley answered, pushing him over the edge and into freefall. 

“Hello?”

“Hi Crowley. This is Aziraphale. From the seminary.” He wanted to slap himself. How many other Aziraphale’s did Crowley know? Not off to a great start, but it could only get better… Right? 

“I know who you are,” He huffed. 

Aziraphale could almost hear the ‘ _you idio_ t’ that should’ve followed. He should’ve been annoyed at Crowley’s exasperation. But he understood it. He couldn’t blame him. And it was good to hear his voice again. If only he could see him. 

“Oh. Of course. Sorry.” 

There was silence.

“Why are you calling me?” Crowley asked.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.”

“You can say that again.” Was barely audible, but Aziraphale heard it. It hurt. But it was deserved. 

“I…” He hesitated. He wanted to say he missed him. Wanted to tell him he loved him. But he couldn’t. “You left the seminary?” He contented himself with asking instead. 

“I did. It didn’t seem the right place for me anymore. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.” His voice cracked. 

Had something happened to Sam? He thought they didn’t talk anymore. Or was it Raphael? Aziraphale hadn’t heard from him since he’d left for his own parish, somewhere in Wales. Or was there someone new? Someone he didn’t know, who’d found themselves in Crowley’s life… and heart. 

“I’m sorry to hear it.” 

“It’s alright. I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine, but Aziraphale knew not to contradict him. He needed to tread carefully. 

“Did you get the laptop I left you?” He’d left the battered old second-hand machine on his desk, hoping Crowley would find it. He’d been tempted to leave a note or something with it, but he hadn’t known what to write, so he hoped the gesture would speak for itself. 

“Yeah. I did. You didn’t need to do that. I told you I didn’t need it.” 

“I know. But I didn’t need it either and, well, you needed it more than me.” 

There was silence again for a few moments. Had they ever been this awkward with each other before? 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, just listening to the sound of Crowley breathing. He could imagine Crowley, sitting somewhere, clutching the phone as tightly as Aziraphale was. He wished he could be wherever he was. 

“So, why are you calling me?” Crowley asked again.

He hesitated. Why had he called? What did he want? That was the question. 

“I heard you left the seminary and I wanted to check in. That’s what friends do, don’t they?” 

“Friends? Are we still friends?” 

“I hope so. I hope I didn’t completely ruin things.” 

“Aziraphale –” Crowley began.

“No, please. Let me tell you how sorry I am. About everything. I should never have let my feelings get the best of me. I behaved terribly.”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. Aziraphale’s heart leapt to hear the fondness of it. He missed him like a physical ache. “We both let our feelings get the best of us. I don’t blame you.”

“You should though. I was supposed to be the well-behaved angel. And then I kissed you.”

“I kissed you first, remember? If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

Here they were, arguing again. It was so familiar. 

“Yes, but I wanted you to.”

“You did? Because it seemed to me like you didn’t. I seem to remember you running away from me like you were on fire.”

“Of course I wanted it. God, I wanted it more than anything else in the world!” He had finally admitted it to Crowley. And to himself. 

“Where is your parish?” Crowley asked, sounding urgent. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you…” But who could it hurt? Surely, they could control themselves. Besides, Crowley couldn’t be expelled. He’d left of his own free will. 

“Look, wherever you are, I'll come to you. Where are you?” He asked, pushing harder. 

Aziraphale gave in. “I’m in London.”

“What?”

“I’m back in London.” 

“Can I see you?” 

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” He said, wanting to give in and say yes. Maybe if he saw him again, he would know what to do? 

“Please, angel. I promise, I’ll behave.”

* * *

He’d rethought his decision to meet with Crowley about once every single second since he’d said yes. He knew it was a dumb idea, but for once, he was going to let himself make a stupid decision. He’d worked all his life to play by the rules and do what he was told and he’d had enough. 

They were going to meet in St James's Park, a nice, neutral and public place. Nothing scandalous could happen in such a well populated park. 

Not that he was planning on anything scandalous, of course. And Crowley had promised not to try anything. 

Still, Aziraphale remembered the feel of his lips and his hands and being wanted. It was hard not to want to feel it again.

He wandered through the gardens, trying to walk off his nerves, until he noticed an empty bench. He took the seat before anyone else could steal it away. 

He contented himself with fidgeting and watching the ducks, when he heard Crowley approaching. He didn’t know how he knew it was Crowley, just that it was. 

“Hi, angel.” He took a seat beside him, long limbs sprawled out. But far enough away to appear like strangers. Far enough away to seem impersonal and cold. 

“Hi,” Aziraphale greeted, risking a glance at him. His red hair was unruly and looked like it hadn’t been cut since they’d last seen each other. But it looked soft and had natural waves. Aziraphale wanted to stroke it. 

God, he’d missed him. His heart, which had ached from the distance between them since he’d left the seminary, now ached more for the proximity, beating wildly and begging Aziraphale to close the tiny gap that remained. He tried to ignore it. 

“Should I say it’s good to see you?” Crowley asked.

He had his sunglasses on, so Aziraphale couldn’t see that he was looking at him. But he could sense the gaze on his face. It made his cheeks warm, but if pressed, he’d blame it on the sunny weather. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, it is.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s good to see you too.” It felt like a confession, made in the darkness of a confessional booth, rather than the wide open space of a public park. 

“I’ve...” Crowley stopped and looked away. 

This wasn’t them. Even at the beginning they’d never been like this. Where was the fire and the passion?

He wanted to scream. 

Instead he asked, “What did you want to say?” 

“Nothing.” 

“After everything, I think we should be honest with each other, don’t you?”

Crowley looked sceptical, but agreed anyway. “Alright. I was going to say I’ve missed you."

It was too much for Aziraphale’s heart to take. 

“Crowley –" He pleaded. 

“I know. I said I’d be good. I’m sorry,” Crowley said, looking away. His shoulders slumped dejectedly. His hand was between them on the bench, gripping the edge for dear life. 

Aziraphale had never wanted to hurt him, yet here he was, doing it again. 

“I’ve missed you too, my dear,” He admitted. His hand wanted to reach out and touch him, peel his hand from the death grip on the seat and take it in his. 

But he couldn’t. 

But why couldn’t he? Who was stopping him?

Everyone knew that he loved Crowley and no one had rejected or excommunicated him – except Gabriel, but since when did his opinions matter?

If this was to truly act as the second half of his free year, before entering the seminary, before taking his vows, before secluding himself away from life, then shouldn’t he take Crowley’s hand? He was here to figure out his feelings, but that wouldn’t work if he kept running away from them. 

His hand tentatively slid over Crowley’s. The long fingers relaxed from the wood, instead curling in on themselves while Aziraphale’s curled around them. His fingers weren’t long enough to fully encompass his entire fist, but it was enough.

Crowley’s eyebrows had climbed over the top of his sunglasses and his mouth had fallen open.

Aziraphale offered him a sheepish grin and a one-shouldered shrug. 

Crowley seemed to accept that neither had any idea what was going on, so he cleared his throat and asked, “Has the Archbastard Gabriel allowed you back, now that I’m gone?”

“You know..?”

“Yeah. When I left, he went on a rant for about half an hour about how I corrupted and seduced you.” 

The idea of being seduced by Crowley made Aziraphale’s mind screech to a halt. He wasn’t ready to think about that. If he ever would be. If he decided not to return to St Anthony’s. 

Which was ridiculous. Of course he’d be going back. 

“The Archbishop does like doing that,” Aziraphale laughed. 

“He really does.” Crowley was laughing too, even if only silently and briefly. All the tension was gone. “So then, why are you back?” 

“The other priest at my parish thought I could use a holiday, so I’m home – I mean, back in London. Just for a while.” 

“Oh. You’re heading back soon?” 

Was he? 

Of course he was. 

Wasn’t he? 

“Yes. I mean, not for a month or so yet.”

“Will I be able to see you again before you go?” He sounded hopeful, even if he tried to hide it. 

Aziraphale should say no. He should say goodbye and leave this all behind him. He should go back to St Anthony’s knowing he’d made his decision and holding his head high. 

“I don’t see why not,” He answered. 

Crowley’s replying smile was brighter than the sun. 

* * *

They didn’t spend long together in the park that day.

Aziraphale had promised he’d meet up with Frances and Michael for lunch – which had at the time, acted as an excuse, for if their meeting was too awkward.

Michael was dying to hear all about what had happened with Crowley. But he wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say much. He and Crowley had only talked and he’d held his hand. It’d been nice. He’d missed him more than he’d ever thought possible and being back beside him had felt entirely right. 

And that was a problem. 

He had to return to his real life soon. He couldn’t exist in this bubble, where he and Crowley could sit and laugh as if they didn’t have a care in the world. No matter how much he wished they could. But oh, how he wished they could. He couldn’t remember ever being happier. It was as if his entire life until now had been lived in black and white, and Crowley had burst like a rainbow across his existence, giving everything colour and meaning. He realised how romantic and soppy it sounded, even in his own head, but it was true. 

But they couldn’t be together. 

Could they? 

Everyone had presented it as if it were a choice, to choose Crowley over the Church. But his vows were sacred and breaking them was tantamount to denouncing God. 

Wasn’t it? 

He sighed. What was he supposed to do? 

He fell to his knees and prayed, hoping this time, unlike all the others, there would be an answer. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a call. And a decision.  
> Then, a showdown of Heavenly proportions.

Aziraphale and Crowley began meeting once a week in the park. As much as Aziraphale loved being home in London – seeing Frances, Michael, John, Anathema and Newt, and crashing in Pepper’s apartment – seeing Crowley was the highlight of his ‘holiday’. They companionably sat and talked or wandered the park and surrounds.

It felt like dating or at least what Aziraphale assumed dating felt like. But it was really not too different from all their ‘study sessions’ in the classroom, where sometimes very little actually study got done. 

At their second park meeting, Aziraphale asked Crowley what he was doing, now he’d left the seminary.

“Well, since I couldn’t go home, I had to get a job. I’m working at a florists and plant nursery. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s something.” He shrugged self-consciously, as if the poorly paid priest was going to judge him.

“You did say you wanted to work with plants.” Aziraphale smiled at him reassuringly. “You enjoy it?”

“Yeah, I do.” Crowley grinned back.

Aziraphale was happy Crowley had found something he was passionate about. Maybe everyone else had been right, that Crowley hadn’t belonged at the seminary. Still, he wasn’t sad he’d been there at all. Otherwise, they’d probably never have met. Unless it was always destined that they’d meet. God hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about that, no matter how many times Aziraphale asked.

“You’d have liked the garden at St Anthony’s. I tend to it, sometimes,” He admitted shyly.

“I didn’t know you liked gardening. Maybe you should come over to my place and see all my plants?” Crowley suggested, somewhat suggestively. Aziraphale only blushed. Crowley sensed his reluctance and cleared his throat, taking a more innocent tack. “Maybe one day I can visit you and you can show me this garden and St Anthony’s?”

The idea of Crowley visiting him at his parish sounded like a nightmare. St Anthony’s was where he’d tried to escape him and the feelings he inspired. Thinking about the two colliding made him feel ill.

But if he was going back, he couldn’t avoid having Crowley visit eventually. He didn’t want to go back to not seeing him.

“Yeah, maybe,” He shrugged. He changed the subject to which plants grew best where and smiled as Crowley regaled him with everything he’d learnt. He lit up talking about plants in a way he’d never done when discussing theology. Not even at the height of their most heated debates.

It looked good on him.

* * *

The next time, they went and had a meal at a nearby café. Crowley was even thinner than he’d been at the seminary, probably since his job didn’t seem to pay a lot. And while Aziraphale wasn’t exactly flush with cash either, he decided to treat them both to a nice lunch. As if to prove it, Crowley looked pained when presented with the menu. Aziraphale wanted to reassure him that he was paying, but he knew it would look like charity, which Crowley would never in a million years accept.

So, Aziraphale ‘accidentally’ ordered too much and invited Crowley to do him the ‘favour’ of helping him finish it. Crowley looked at him sceptically, but he ate, which was the main thing.

Except the cake Aziraphale ordered as a dessert. He wasn’t allowed to share that. Aziraphale might love him, but when it came to cake, he didn’t share.

“I was thinking of going to the National Gallery this afternoon, if you’d like to join me?” He asked. He’d been spending a lot of his abundant spare time sight-seeing and acting like a tourist. He’d never viewed London like that before, having grown up there and taking it all for granted. But, like all the time he’d been spending with Crowley, if he was to live the rest of his life in a parish outside the city, he might as well make the most of his time there while he could. He suspected, even as he asked, that art galleries weren’t exactly Crowley’s scene, and he’d be bored, but he asked hopefully regardless. He didn’t want their time together to end again just yet.

“Of course. They have some amazing pieces on display. Van Gogh, Rubens, Titian, Monet, Raphael, Michelangelo, Donatello and, of course, da Vinci. All the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

Aziraphale was taken aback, but, as they wandered around the gallery, Crowley proved himself to be surprisingly knowledgeable. Especially regarding da Vinci, who he raved about. He talked brush strokes, colours, textures and composition like he was Aziraphale’s personal tour guide.

Aziraphale needed to stop being amazed by the many facets of this man, but he couldn’t help himself falling a little more in love every second.

* * *

Before he knew it, Aziraphale had wished away his two months waiting desperately for the next time he’d see Crowley. They’d spent hours in the park, but eventually daring to roam farther and stay together longer, going to plays and concerts, and eating at cafes and restaurants, spending hours together, almost entire days, when Crowley wasn’t working. Crowley had never seen a live Shakespeare play or eaten oysters, two things that Aziraphale remedied in one amazingly unforgettable night (Crowley hadn't minded the oysters, but he'd mentioned how melancholy Hamlet was. Next time, Aziraphale thought, he'd take him to see Much Ado). The days between seeing him dragged, no matter how he spent them. Even his friends and family couldn’t distract him for long.

He called Jacob to ask for an extension of his leave.

“You know you can take as long as you like, but please, let me know once you’ve made up your mind on whether you’re coming back.”

“Of course I’m coming back!” He objected. But even as he said it, he was no longer sure he meant it. He wasn’t lying, exactly. But the idea of being sent away again, even to somewhere as beautiful, peaceful and idyllic as St Anthony’s – the place that had become his refuge – was enough to make his heart ache. He missed it, and Jacob, but not as much as he missed London when he left.

“Just another few weeks and I’ll be back.”

“Like I said, there’s no need to rush.”

“Thank you, Jacob.”

“Not a problem. Now, how’s that young man of yours?”

It didn’t help that everyone constantly asked about Crowley. Pepper and Michael had even filled Anathema and Newt in on the situation, and while they weren’t the gossiping, meddling types, they asked about him.

It was almost enough to drive Aziraphale mad.

“You know it’s just because we care about you.”

“We just want you to be happy.”

“You deserve love.”

He was beginning to suspect that everyone didn’t just support or accept him leaving the Church. They seemed to be actively encouraging it.

“What am I supposed to do?” He asked Frances, confused and frustrated. It’d been one too many pointed comments and he was sick of it.

“Whatever you can live with. Whatever means that in 50 years’ time, you don’t end up alone and regretting the life you chose. Or making others regret the life they chose,” She answered sagely.

He thought about John and Jacob, who’d lived, if not with regret, at least with the question of ‘ _what if?_ ’ Peter had seemed the most sure in his decision, but even then, did he have doubts? As he lay in the hospital in his final days, did he wish he’d made a different choice?

Aziraphale could live with the pain and uncertainty, knowing he’d potentially made the wrong choice. And he could still volunteer and be an active member of the Church community, whether he was a priest or a layman. But what about Crowley? Would he hate Aziraphale for the choices he makes? Would the pain be too much?

He didn’t want to be yet another person breaking his heart.

* * *

“Hello Aziraphale, how are you, my dear?”

“I’m alright. I just need to ask, did Peter ever have doubts?”

* * *

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?” Crowley asked.

They were walking around the park again, hand in hand, each eating an ice-cream, as the sun was beating down. The hand holding had become a habit, since that first time and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to stop it. Who was it hurting? They occasionally got strange or disapproving looks and Aziraphale had to remind himself that it wasn’t because everyone knew he was a priest. If there was judgement, it was because they were two men. Or because Crowley in his customary black and Aziraphale in his customary pastels and tweed made quite a strange pair. He’d learnt to ignore the stares.

“I have another two weeks before I head back.” He didn’t like to even think about it. The deadline had him dreading every second as it dragged him closer to leaving his home and loved ones again.

“Isn’t that what you said a month ago?”

He hadn’t told Crowley his doubts. Whether it was because he didn’t want him to get his hopes up or he didn’t want him to ask questions, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

“I have quite a lot of leave accrued, and Jacob told me to take my time.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically.

“But you are going back?”

“I...” He paused and turned to look at Crowley, who avoided his eyes. The forced casual tone of his voice was painful to hear. “Do you want me to go back?” He’d stopped walking and turned until they faced each other.

“Angel,” He said, a clear warning.

“Crowley, my dear, it seems I’ve been unfair to you. I wouldn’t blame you for hating me, if you did.” He’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d done some things that might have ruined any chance of a relationship between them.

“I don’t hate you,” He huffed. He was still looking anywhere but at him.

Aziraphale sighed, “I love you, Crowley.”

Crowley opened his mouth, either in shock or to reply, but Aziraphale soldiered on.

“I know it’s obvious, but I realised I’d never said it. And I should have. I should’ve said it months ago. Perhaps even a year ago.”

“Aziraphale – “

“Please, allow me to finish. I don’t know if you reciprocate, especially given how I’ve treated you, but I would hope you will at least forgive me, if not now, then eventually. I haven’t listened to you. I’ve made your choices for you and not thought of how much it must have hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong, angel. You’ve only been doing what you needed to do.”

“No, I haven’t. But I’m going to. And I hope you’ll still be here on the other side, but I’ll completely understand if not.”

“The other side of what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to see Gabriel and I’m going to resign.”

“You’re what?” He looked as if he’d been slapped, wearing a mixture of shock, confusion and awe across his face.

“I’m leaving the priesthood.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t belong there anymore. I belong with you, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll… You’re the dumbest, angel. Of course I’ll have you.”

“Oh. Good!”

“And I should be the one apologising. I’m the one who messed up and caused all this. Without me, you’d still be the perfect priest, heading for the papacy.”

Aziraphale had wanted to be a bishop or an archbishop. Or even maybe a cardinal one day. But now, the thought of it just made him feel sad. Was his career really the most important thing to him?

“I was never going to be a perfect priest. And I’ll never be a perfect partner. But I’m going to try, if you want me to. You deserve it.”

Crowley leant in, slowly, letting Aziraphale have plenty of time to pull away, if he wanted to. But he didn’t. They hadn’t kissed since that night in his tiny seminary room.

The fireworks in his chest had him weak-kneed and light-headed. It was somehow more incredible than he’d remembered.

Crowley’s lips were soft and questioning, waiting for him to call the shots – just like Crowley had done their entire relationship. Crowley liked to seem tough and bossy and untouchable, but in Aziraphale’s arms, he was pliable and yielding.

Eventually they pulled apart, as if by mutual agreement. They shared a joyous smile. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was feeling the same elation and freedom he was. He hoped so. He felt like he was floating. He felt like he could take on the world – or at least, the Church – and win.

“Wish me luck with the Archbishop.”

If luck meant kisses, he’d be fine.

* * *

To say Gabriel was surprised to see him was something of an understatement. The Archbishop looked rather like he was seeing a ghost.

“Aziraphale, what are you doing back in London?” His eyes were staring daggers, his face in a scowl.

Aziraphale allowed himself to feel all the rage, the hurt, the pity and the distain he’d never let himself feel before for this man. Gabriel shouldn’t have ever become a priest, let alone a priest of influence. He’d hurt and discriminated against too many people. He’d covered up scandals and banished good people. He was the embodiment of everything wrong with the Church. He needed to be stopped, but Aziraphale knew that was a battle for another day.

“I am here to begin the process of laicization,” He said standing in front of the massive desk, as casually as he could manage. His heart was racing faster than he would’ve thought possible. Still, he felt surprisingly calm. He knew his own mind. He would not be swayed.

“You what?” The cold fury would’ve been terrifying to a younger, more innocent Aziraphale. But not this one. He knew who he was and what he wanted. Nothing – not even an angry Archbishop Gabriel – would stand in his way.

“I’m leaving the priesthood.”

“You can’t just quit.” He was smiling as if he could call Aziraphale’s bluff. But he wasn’t bluffing.

“I’m aware of that. But I’m here to begin the process.”

“I’m not going to let you abandon God and the vows you made. You chose God and God, for some unfathomable reason, seems to have chosen you.” His disgust was not disguised in the least as he sneered at him down the length of his nose.

“See, that’s something you’ve always gotten wrong. You act as if you know God’s will. But you don’t! You don’t know anymore than I do, or more than anyone does. You don’t know what God has planned. You don’t even know the difference between right and wrong, good or bad. You act as if you are a God, playing with people’s lives. You punish people for their humanity.” He’d hurt too many people and for what? Having the audacity to love? Wasn’t that the most human and yet the Godliest thing someone could do? And Gabriel hated people for it.

“I’m doing it for the greater good. I will not let my students fail and make this institution look bad.” He’d stood from his seat and was glaring down at Aziraphale as if he could smite him.

“The greater good? You wouldn’t know the greater good if it bit you in the arse!”

“Don’t you talk to me about the greater good, you little bastard! I’m the Archbishop fucking Gabriel.” He slammed his fist on the table as he yelled, vein popping on his forehead, violet eyes incandescent with rage.

“I will do the counselling, the confession, whatever you need me to do, but at the end of it, I will be leaving the Church. There is nothing – _nothing_ – you can do to stop me.” He stood his ground.

“I never wanted you here anyway. If it wasn’t for John and Peter’s insistence, you would never have been accepted. Damn stupid, meddling old queers,” He scoffed.

Aziraphale saw red, but he stayed silent and simply glared. He wouldn’t let Gabriel get to him. It was obvious bait and he wouldn’t take it.

“I hope you and your little faggot boyfriend are happy together. But don’t think this is the end of it.” It was a threat, but Aziraphale felt it slide off him like water off a duck’s back. Gabriel couldn’t hurt him now. He’d been to Hell and back in the last year. Nothing could touch him anymore.

“Oh, don’t worry, Gabe, I know.” He’d be back, with his fathers and friends behind him to make sure Gabriel felt the consequences of his actions. And he wouldn’t stop until justice had been done. But that was for another day. This was a war and this first battle was won.

He turned and left, slamming the door on his way out. He could practically hear Gabriel’s spluttering protests, but he didn’t stop. Let him have his tantrum. Aziraphale didn’t owe him anything anymore. Not that he ever had.

He’d never felt so powerful. And yet, when he stopped walking to take a breath, his entire body was shaking with adrenaline and terror. To be so disrespectful to an authority figure was so unlike him. It was reckless and wild. He felt as if he were channelling Crowley’s attitude. He couldn’t deny it felt good, as much as it scared him.

But not for a second did he doubt it was the right choice.

He wanted to go straight to Crowley, to tell him what had happened, to hug him and have his comfort and support, but he had a few other things to do first.

“Hello, Frances.”

“Hello, my darling. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Wonderful, actually. I was wondering, can you pop over to the seminary for a bit?”

“Of course. Shall I bring Michael?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll see you in a minute.”

He hung up, but immediately was on the phone again.

“Hi, John.”

“Aziraphale, my dear. How are you?”

“I’m great. Can I meet you in the top classroom in a few minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Before making his way there, he typed a quick message.

‘It’s done. I miss you and can’t wait to see you again. Love you xxx'

* * *

He made his way up to the classroom, stopping outside as he heard everyone inside talking. Taking a few deep breaths, he steadied himself. This was somehow even more frightening than facing Gabriel. But unlike Gabriel, he knew everyone inside the room supported and loved him unconditionally.

Still, his stomach clenched as he turned the corner to see four people, not three.

“Jacob?”

“Hey, Aziraphale. It’s good to see you.” Jacob embraced him before he could get over the shock of seeing him.

By the time Jacob released him, his brain had caught up and he could ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I had the feeling I was needed. Besides, John told me you might be calling soon. I figured a trip to London was in order.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

Looking around the room, he could see in their eyes they already knew what they were there for. No one seemed surprised or upset. Frances was smiling her serene, all-knowing Mona Lisa smile. Michael was practically vibrating with excitement. John looked resigned but accepting. John looked proud, though whether at himself for having seen Aziraphale's choice long before he himself had or whether he was proud Aziraphale was making this choice, Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

Still, he hesitated, before announcing, “I am resigning from the priesthood.”

No one moved or said a word for a few, long seconds. He began to worry maybe he’d read the entire situation wrong, but then he was being embraced again, by multiple arms from multiple directions.

He relaxed into it and let all their soothing words cascade over him. He hadn’t lost everything. He still had everyone he loved and a future, it was just slightly different than he’d first expected. He found he didn’t mind it though.

‘ _Thank you.’_

* * *

He headed back to Pepper’s apartment a few hours later. He was surprised and slightly concerned he hadn’t heard back from Crowley yet, but he was probably busy doing... something. Maybe he’d been called into work.

He didn’t let himself stress over it. For the first time in a long time, he felt positively stress free. He still had a long way to go, but he’d started and that was the important thing.

But he also felt exhausted. It’d been a long, emotionally and spiritually draining day. It was still early evening, but he found himself curling up on Pepper’s couch and his eyes began to drift shut.

‘Text me when you can, my love. I have so much to tell you,’ He sent, and waited for the reply. He was asleep before it came.

* * *

Aziraphale awoke and immediately grabbed for his phone. Looking through his notifications, he couldn’t help but grin. He had four messages from Crowley. It felt good to have someone missing him and thinking about him enough to send him multiple messages of love. Only, when he looked at the messages, they weren’t what he had assumed at all. 

‘Hey, angel. It’s been a rough day. You free to talk?’

‘Angel?’

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m going to sleep now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?’

The last message was sent at 3am. It was now 7am. Knowing Crowley, he’d still be asleep and would be until the afternoon, unless he had work before then.

‘I’m available all day. Meet in the park this afternoon?’

He didn’t expect a reply and he’d almost drifted back to sleep when his phone buzzed, scaring him back to consciousness.

‘Meet at 9?’

‘9am or pm?’

‘Am.’

That was a surprise. Usually not even a rabid hellhound could drag him out of bed. Now Aziraphale was starting to worry.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah. I’m fine, angel.’

Somehow that didn’t quite soothe his nerves, but he’d find out whatever had Crowley so rattled in a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Aziraphale owes Crowley a bit of an apology. He may not have realised before now but he's been a tad selfish. He's been so far in his own head that he's not really taken into account how Crowley feels. Poor Crowley. 
> 
> Now, what has got Crowley all agitated? 
> 
> Two more chapters to go and then we'll be done. It's been a ride, guys. Thanks for joining me on it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a tale to tell and our boys start to live their happily ever after.

Crowley had beaten him to the park and was sat at what Aziraphale now happily referred to as ‘their bench’.

“Hello, my darling,” He greeted, taking a seat and leaning over to give him a kiss. It was only a peck, but it was enough to make him feel giddy. He wasn’t used to being able to do that yet.

Leaning back, he noticed Crowley was looking ragged. His face looked gaunt and he had pronounced bags under his eyes. He didn’t look sick per se, but something had clearly unbalanced him.

Did he have regrets? Had Aziraphale said or done something to upset him?

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

“Gabriel,” Crowley huffed.

That one word was enough to have Aziraphale on edge.

“What did he do? Did he hurt or threaten you?” He was ready to march back to his office and give him another piece of his mind. But Crowley shook his head.

“He called my parents.” His tone was grim, but Aziraphale still wasn’t seeing the problem.

Apparently, Crowley sensed his confusion, because he continued, “They didn’t know I’d left the seminary.”

“Oh, no.” His stomach dropped. Knowing their reaction to his sexuality, he could only imagine their reaction to this. 

“They invited me to go see them, out of the blue. I wasn’t sure why, but they said they wanted to see me. They never said why. I thought –” He cut himself off, looking troubled. 

“What happened?”

“When I got there, they ambushed me. They yelled, called me every name under the sun and then some. The usuals, slurs and telling me I’m a failure, etcetera, etcetera.”

“You’re not a failure!” He objected.

“I know.” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he did know, but he was determined to convince him, whether it took years or decades. They’d probably be in Heaven thousands of years from now and he’d still be arguing with him. He was glad that arguing with him was fun.

“I didn’t care that they were attacking me. At least it wasn't physical this time. It’s nothing new. But then they started saying things…” He shot an uncharacteristically nervous glance at Aziraphale.

He knew him well enough to know what it meant. 

“They started saying rude things about me?”

“Yeah. And I wasn’t just gonna sit there and take that bullshit,” He scoffed.

“What did you do?” He asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“I finally told them exactly how much they could fuck off.” Crowley gave him a feral grin. He was clearly pleased with himself. 

“You didn’t!”

“I did. The looks on their faces was priceless. If they didn’t already think I was evil, they would now. I swear, if they’d had holy water, they would’ve started dousing me and speaking in tongues.”

“Crowley!” He admonished, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He didn’t know Crowley’s family. He didn’t care to, based on what he’d been told by Crowley, but he didn’t want Crowley fighting with his family. Especially not over him.

“They deserved it. I’ve never stood up to them like that before and it felt _good_.” He did look happy, but Aziraphale’s naturally anxious nature had him concerned.

“But they’re your family.” He was – rather ironically – playing devil’s advocate.

“So? That doesn’t mean anything. You should know that. ‘Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’ and all that.”

“Yes, but I didn’t have a choice. I was abandoned. You can still make up with them.”

“I don’t want to. I forgive them, as an almost-priest should. But if I never see them again, I don’t care. They want to disown me? They can go right ahead. I’m not going to let them hurt me, or you, again.” He seemed entirely resolved and pleased with himself. 

“Oh, Crowley,” He sighed. But he was willing to let it go. He didn’t want to spoil Crowley’s good mood. He needed to trust him on this. 

Thankfully, Crowley changed the subject. “How did your talk with Gabriel go?”

Considering only a moment ago Aziraphale had been admonishing Crowley for his argument with his parents, he realised how hypocritical he was going to sound for disrespecting the Archbishop. He felt himself begin to blush and had to turn away.

“That well, huh?” Crowley chuckled.

“No. It went about as well as could reasonably be expected.” Which, he had to concede, was not saying much. It was never going to be an easy task.

“That’s it? I’m gonna need more details than that, angel.” He reached out and playfully poked his arm. 

Aziraphale mock glared at him. 

“There was some arguing,” He admitted, looking away again. He couldn't look at him while he told him what he'd done. What he'd said. 

“Yeah? What happened?”

“I may have potentially – and purely hypothetically – told him he wouldn’t know the greater good if it bit him on the arse and somewhat implied he had a God complex,” He giggled nervously.

When he shyly looked up at Crowley again, he saw only complete shock. Crowley was blinking at him, mouth agape. Slowly, a wicked smile grew and took over Crowley's entire face.

“I have never loved you more than in this moment.”

It wasn’t the reaction Aziraphale was expecting, but he wasn’t complaining. Now he was blushing for a different, and far better, reason.

Crowley just continued to stare at him as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Don’t be silly, my dear,” He giggled again, this time in relief and disbelief at the absurd turn his life had taken.

“I wish I could’ve been there. I wish you’d filmed it. I’d give a million dollars to have seen his face. Did he pop the forehead vein?” Crowley looked far too excited at the idea.

“He looked as if he was going to combust,” Aziraphale laughed. He refused to feel guilt for doing what was right. And if it had the added bonus of making Gabriel angry, more the better.

“Next time, I’m definitely coming with you. If we kiss in front of him, do you think we can get steam to come out his ears?”

They were both laughing now, and any time one began to calm again, the other on my had to look at them to begin the cycle anew.

Finally, Aziraphale got himself under control enough to steer the conversation back on track, at least somewhat.

“I have officially tendered my resignation.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t fire you for your insolence.”

“I know. If anything, he seems determined to stop me quitting. But it’s too late. My mind is made up. I’m not going back.”

He hadn’t thought Crowley was tense, but at those words, his shoulders slumped slightly and his face smoothed, as if he’d been sure Aziraphale would change his mind. It stung, but he didn’t blame him. Crowley had a history of people abandoning him. But Aziraphale wasn’t going to be one of them… Not again.

“Now I just need to figure out exactly what to do next. I suppose I need to find a new job.” He hadn’t given as much thought to that as he ought to. He was not the type to run headlong into the unknown, yet that was what he was doing. He hadn’t expected to ever be in this position –hadn’t expected there to be an ‘after’ he’d been a priest. It was totally uncharted waters.

“What were you thinking of doing?”

“Perhaps becoming a counsellor? Though, I’d have to go back to school...” The idea wasn't entirely appealing. 

“Haven’t you spent long enough in school?”

“Maybe. Anyhow, in the meantime, I can volunteer and keep myself busy. And I suppose I’ll have to find myself somewhere to live. I can’t go back to the seminary or the convent…” Something about that hit him harder than leaving the priesthood. He wouldn’t ever be allowed to go home. “And I can’t stay on Pepper’s couch forever, not that she’d mind, of course.”

“You can stay with me. If you’d like.”

“I don’t think the Church would like that very much.”

“I don’t think they have a say anymore,” He gently reminded him. Then panic set in and he began to hurriedly backtrack. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure –”

“Of course, I’d love to,” He cut him off and took his hand in his.

“Oh, OK. Good.” His smile was relieved, and he was practically glowing with happiness.

Aziraphale realised that he’d made the right choice. No matter how much he’d loved being a priest, this feeling he was feeling, this love, was unlike anything else he’d ever experienced, and he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

* * *

It was done. He was no longer a priest. He was a regular, everyday citizen, who sometimes held hands with his male partner as they did their grocery shopping and went about their regular, everyday lives. It felt strange, but wonderful. 

And every day he fell just a little more in love with Crowley, to the point he couldn’t imagine loving him more – only to surprise himself 10 seconds later when Crowley would do something adorable or funny. His heart was overflowing.

It took time for Crowley to truly relax into their relationship. It was as if he expected Aziraphale to disappear any moment. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. He also worried that Aziraphale might regret leaving the Church. Aziraphale reassured him as often as he could. And he wasn't going anywhere. He could be patient. He'd wait millennia if he had to. 

One night, he sat him down and explained, “I didn’t leave the Church just because of you. I left because I needed to. I realised, much as I hate to admit it, Gabriel was right. I was too young and it was all I’d ever known. I don’t regret taking my vows, but nor do I regret abandoning them. You definitely helped me realise I wasn’t happy and without you, I might still be there, miserable and not even aware of it. So thank you.” And he punctuated it with a kiss.

Crowley seemed to accept that, and as time went on, he seemed to stop second guessing.

Moving in with Crowley had been… Interesting. They fought over space (“No, Crowley, I can’t just get rid of some of my bibles! These are rare editions!”) and chores (“Angel, why did God invent dust? How can something get dirty from not being touched?”) like they argued over everything else. But now, their arguments ended in crying with laughter or kisses. It was paradise.

The apartment was small, since neither had the most lucrative of jobs. Crowley loved working with plants and seemed to bring a new one home once a week, turning their tiny apartment into a miniature Garden of Eden. He talked to them (or rather, yelled at them to behave) which Aziraphale found endearing, but he didn’t tell Crowley that. They were still working out how much affection each other could tolerate. But slowly, Crowley was losing his tough exterior completely around Aziraphale. Aziraphale felt like he was seeing something sacred every time Crowley let himself be vulnerable.

Aziraphale had found himself a job he was uniquely qualified for – as a librarian at a theological research library. He liked getting to help the students who came in, showing them around, dazzling them with his extensive knowledge and watching them like a hawk for any signs of food, drink or anything else that might damage the books. There was a no tolerance policy and he had no issue with chasing any offenders out. His co-workers were all older than him, some significantly, but it felt familiar. His own research could almost pick up exactly where he left off, only now, he had books from every religion, not just his own and he didn't have to answer to Gabriel. That was a real blessing. 

Not that he’d given up his religion entirely. If anything, being free of the Church made him surer of it. He couldn’t believe God had almost struck him with lightning to get him to realise what he felt for Crowley! It had still taken him a while after that to accept those feelings – he was stubborn after all – but he was glad everything had worked out as it had. He wouldn’t change a thing and he thanked God every day. He wished He had been a bit more forthcoming when it came to the ‘Great Plan’ of his life, but the working it out himself had admittedly been a valuable learning experience – and at times even fun, in hindsight. 

He found he missed St Anthony’s more than he’d expected. He hadn’t been happy there, but it wasn’t because of the place, the people or the Church. He made a point to visit every other month. Jacob was eager to have both him and Crowley come to visit and they made sure to tend the garden when they did. The first time Aziraphale had headed back, a few months after officially becoming a layperson again, he was shocked by the overgrowth. If he used that as an excuse to visit more often, that was his business. Jacob pretended not to notice, but they knew he knew. 

John had finally retired. He seemed content by that, spending his time volunteering and touring the countryside. He stopped in at the churches of all his former pupils, including Raphael, who was happily leading a little congregation in Wales. Because of that, the trip took far longer than he’d expected. He sent postcards and photos to Aziraphale every few weeks. They talked on the phone at least once a fortnight. They both missed Peter, but they knew he was watching over them.

“He’d be proud of you, you know,” John said one day. Aziraphale had to hang up quickly after that, to avoid blubbering like a baby down the phone at him.

Frances and Michael both visited him, and he visited them, usually when Gabriel was in The Vatican or otherwise engaged, just in case he spotted him sneaking into the convent. Not that it was illegal, but avoiding Gabriel was always a good idea. Even a year later, he hadn’t seen Gabriel since he’d officially renounced his vows. Gabriel and Father Michael hadn’t been happy, but with his Father’s, Mother Superior and Sister there, he couldn’t say a word. Gabriel had to content himself with glaring. Crowley was having a great time, smiling and teasing Gabriel, knowing he could do nothing about it. While Aziraphale scolded Crowley for it, he had secretly enjoyed it too. And he knew Michael had loved it, since she and Crowley had become as thick as thieves and combined to make mischief.

In fact, Crowley had easily infiltrated Aziraphale’s friendship group. Pepper already liked him, since he still volunteered at the shelter with Aziraphale. Anathema and Newt were just happy to see Aziraphale happy and had happily invited Crowley as his plus one to their wedding.

Newt and Anathema got married about six months into Aziraphale and Crowley’s "official" relationship. Anathema proposed and then a month later, they were getting married. Their wedding was a small affair with only their closest friends. It didn’t stop the reception from getting rowdy though.

Crowley was in a new black suit, with a black shirt and silver tie. Aziraphale couldn’t believe how incredibly tall and handsome he looked, even more than usual. He could feel eyes on them as they stood together. Aziraphale was wearing a cream coloured suit, with a light blue shirt and customary bowtie, which he loved, but he couldn’t help but feel was about as opposite to Crowley as he could get. They made a strange looking couple, but then, so did Newt and Anathema.

“Dance with me?” Crowley asked out of the blue.

“I don’t know how to dance,” He admitted. He’d never had the opportunity to learn. Dancing wasn’t exactly high on the list of priorities in the seminary. He wouldn’t even be surprised if Gabriel thought dancing was the work of the Devil.

“It’s a wedding. Not even professional dancers dance well at a wedding. And besides, the bar is particularly well-stocked.”

The small dance floor was filled with drunk revellers. They looked like they were having a good time, but still, Aziraphale hesitated.

“Come on, angel. Live a little!” His happy, slightly tipsy half smile could’ve convinced Aziraphale of anything at that moment, so he let himself be led to the dancefloor. They danced, chest to chest at the slow dances and flailing alarmingly at the fast ones, looking ridiculous but having the time of their lives.

As they made their way home together, hand in hand, Aziraphale realised he might have missed out on this. His heart ached for the him he’d been. He might have been content with life, but would he have been truly happy? He couldn’t be sure, but he doubted it.

By the time they made it home, they’d sobered up. They entered their sanctuary, oddly quietly. They both seemed peculiarly introspective as they undressed each other, touching and kissing. They didn’t need words as they finally consummated their relationship.

Despite having lived together for almost six months, and having literally slept together the entire time, they had never taken that step. It was not for lack of desire on either part. It was partly due to their combined inexperience. But mostly, at least for Aziraphale, there was guilt and shame he needed to confront. The Church had told him since he was born that sex was for married couples. And heterosexual ones. Despite his own attitudes, the subconscious teachings ran deep. He wanted to, he really, _really_ wanted to, but something had been holding him back. Crowley had been so patient and kind, waiting without complaint. It just made Aziraphale feel that much guiltier and want him even more.

But as he and Crowley made love – which was a dreadfully sappy cliché, but he couldn’t describe it any other way – he realised this could never be a sin. If he’d thought kissing Crowley was a religious experience, this was on a whole other level. He never knew he could feel such complete and utter bliss. It wasn’t Heaven, since he thought Heaven would have far more angels and be slightly less strenuous and sweaty, but it was something wonderful anyway, something so mind-blowing he couldn’t describe it if he tried.

He felt only mildly guilty for invoking the name of the Lord multiple times.

As he and Crowley lay together in the aftermath, he found himself praying.

‘ _Thank you, God. Thank you for giving me this joy. Thank you for leading us to each other and showing me the way. I’m sorry I ever doubted you_.’

He’d thought Crowley was dozing, but then a voice spoke from beneath his head, rumbling and soft.

“Angel?”

“Yes, my love?” He glanced up and Crowley and smiled as he saw his hair in disarray and his face flushed. He looked beautiful in an entirely different way than he had earlier in the night. It was a sight so intimate and something only Aziraphale was privy to. His heart fluttered.

“It was a nice wedding, wasn’t it?”

He hadn’t anticipated Crowley enjoying the wedding – he thought he might see it more as an obligation than anything else – but he’d certainly seemed to. He’d spent the whole night smiling.

“It was perfectly them. And I’m very happy for them.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Crowley fell silent again and Aziraphale cushioned his head back on Crowley’s bony chest. He supposed that by rights, it should be the other way around. He was the soft, pillowy one, but Crowley didn’t seem to mind and neither did he.

The seconds ticked by and he closed his eyes, feeling himself lulled to sleep by the gentle rise and fall. Until Crowley spoke again.

“Would you, maybe one day, and maybe not for a long time, want to do that? With me?”

It took Aziraphale a moment for his sluggish brain to connect what he was trying to say. When he did, he shot up and looked down at a sheepish looking Crowley in surprise.

“Are you proposing to me?” He had to make sure, in case he’d misheard or misunderstood.

“No,” He quickly replied, making Aziraphale’s heart fall, before he continued, “I’m just asking if I _could_ propose to you one day. In the future.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “I’d like that. A lot. One day.”

He secretly hoped that day wasn’t too far away. But they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I lost some of you in the last chapter. I don't think I did though. At least, I hope I didn't? Are you all still with me? 
> 
> Just the epilogue to go now. This was supposed to be the epilogue, but then the boys decided to make some decisions and keep me writing. Any guesses what might happen in the official epilogue (given I've just set up a very obvious cliffhanger)?


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue - and they lived happily ever after.  
> Just fluff, because they've earned it.

As it was, Crowley only managed to wait another two months before he proposed. Again. Or as he put it, “proposed properly” – since he didn’t class the first time as a proper proposal. He didn’t think it was “romantic enough".

Aziraphale didn’t care much about whether or not it was romantic, but as far as he was concerned, it had been wonderfully romantic. They had finally consummated their love – what could be more romantic than that?

He tried to explain that the act of proposing was, in and of itself, a romantic gesture without all the added fanfare. But Crowley would not be persuaded.

To an outsider, it might appear that Aziraphale was the more romantic of the two. But anyone who knew them well knew Crowley’s habit of spoiling Aziraphale with flowers, chocolates, books and just about anything else Crowley thought he’d like. His tough guy facade hid a heart as gooey as the cheese fondue he surprised Aziraphale with for their ‘seven-month anniversary’. Aziraphale decided not to point out that ‘anniversary’, by its very definition, meant year. He knew Crowley wanted to spoil him and who was he to stop him? In return, he spoiled Crowley with affection, surprising him with kisses and words of love. Crowley grumbled, but his little smile he tried to hide each time betrayed how much each gesture actually meant. 

“When I propose, it’s gonna be the whole works, alright? There’s gonna be candles and champagne and cake and all that other sappy shit. I’m gonna be on one knee with a ring and everything. Just you wait.”

Aziraphale had to admit it sounded nice, if a little unrealistic, given their limited budget.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long and Crowley really did go all out. And while Aziraphale knew the proposal was meant to be a surprise, it really wasn’t.

“I was thinking we could go on a date on Saturday?” It wasn’t an unusual request. But the slightly higher pitch of his voice and the tension as he leant on the door frame to their bedroom had Aziraphale on high alert.

“Of course, my dear,” He answered. Crowley’s relieved grin as he climbed into bed beside him just confirmed his suspicion that something was afoot. But Aziraphale knew better than to ask. 

Saturday rolled around far too slowly, as weekends tend to do, especially when exciting plans have been made and looked forward to. 

Crowley told Aziraphale nothing of their plans, even when he employed his most usually successful puppy dog eyes and subtle questions. Crowley only shrugged and told him to wear something extra fancy.

Aziraphale decided to wear his cream suit, which turned out to be the right choice, as his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw Crowley in his suit, with his hair slicked back into a small bun (his hair had really grown since he'd left the seminary) and his shoes shined until they were almost blinding. His golden eyes were wide and nervous and begging for approval. Aziraphale took his hand in his, gently bringing it to his lips.

“You look absolutely breathtaking.”

“You look pretty handsome yourself, angel.”

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley just shook his head and led him out of the flat.

In the taxi, Crowley anxiously patted his jacket pocket at least three times. Aziraphale pretended not to notice. 

They arrived at the Ritz and Aziraphale wanted to object. He wanted to tell him it was too much, too expensive and too fancy, but he knew Crowley wouldn’t take it as he meant it – as a gentle suggestion that he doesn’t need to spend so much – but rather see it as an insult. So, he allowed himself to be led through the grand entrance way and into the dining room, where they we’re seated at a table, next to the piano.

Crowley was apprehensively watching him look around the room, taking in all the finery. He couldn’t believe the opulence.

“What do you think?”

“I think you spoil me far too much,” Aziraphale mock scolded, but he soothed it by smiling at him and whispering, “I can’t believe you remembered.”

In their discussion of all the things they’d never done – where Aziraphale had fed Crowley oysters and dragged him to see Hamlet – Aziraphale had confided that he’d always dreamt of dining at the Ritz. As a child, it had seemed the height of sophistication and fine dining. Crowley had replied with ‘maybe one day,’ which Aziraphale had laughed off.

 _But he’d remembered_.

“Of course. I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

“Even the insults?”

“Especially the insults. Without them, I might’ve just written you off as a boring, stuck up goody-two-shoes priest.” He grinned his most mischievous grin and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to be offended.

“Before you, I was.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, before the waiter gently interrupted to take their orders. Aziraphale wanted to protest, since the prices were far more than he would usually spend in an entire week on food, but Crowley looked so pleased to be able to give him this. He would do anything to make Crowley happy.

He ate, trying not to let his nerves ruin his appetite, since the food was incredible and he wanted to enjoy it. But he was watching Crowley, waiting for the moment he would drop to one knee. 

It didn’t happen though.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, out of nowhere as Aziraphale ate his dessert. As usual, Crowley skipped dessert, not having the same sweet tooth as Aziraphale. Instead, Crowley contented himself with watching as Aziraphale ate his cake, while trying not to be too self-conscious. He was used to being the centre of Crowley’s attention now, but it still made him blush and his heart race. He wondered if it would always be that way. He hoped so. Having those strange golden eyes trained on him was addictive.

He licked some of the icing off his lips, asking, “What’s funny?”

Crowley's gaze reluctantly dragged itself away from his mouth and met his eyes. 

“How we ended up here. Given how we started.”

“I never would’ve guessed.” There was a time when he was almost certain Crowley had been sent, as some sort of adversary or enemy, to test him. And maybe he had been sent to test him, but he’d also helped him. He’d shown him a path he’d never seen before.

“It’s rather funny that you told me once that you were becoming a priest, in part at least, because of me. But I stopped being a priest partly because of you.”

"Partly?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

"Partly," He replied, knowing Crowley knew as well as he did that he was lying. 

“You don’t regret it?” Crowley asked. He'd asked many times, but less often than he had. 

“Not for a second.” It was the answer he always gave. It was the truth. 

“Good. Me neither.” Crowley grasped his hand for a moment, before he hopped up and went to pay the bill.

Aziraphale watched him saunter away, feeling somewhat disappointed. He wasn’t going to propose?

Not that he needed to. Aziraphale was perfectly content as they were, but he’d been sure...

“Come on, angel. Let’s go for a walk.”

They found themselves walking to St James’s Park. Whether by design or not, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. But it was a beautiful day, and while he felt overdressed, he didn’t care, walking arm in arm with the man he loved. It was late afternoon and the sun would be setting soon.

“Do you want to sit for a minute or two?” They’d made their way to _their_ bench, which was miraculously free.

“That would be good,” Aziraphale replied. His suit was beginning to overheat him in the sun and with the exercise, especially given the large lunch he’d just eaten. He sat heavily, fiddling with his bowtie, debating taking it off completely. Until he noticed Crowley hadn’t sat. Instead, he was shuffling nervously in front of him.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” He answered defensively. His eyes were glancing around, squinted against the sun. It must be hurting them, but he didn’t reach for his sunglasses.

“No reason.”

And then, he slowly lowered himself to one knee.

“Angel, I love you. And I know I’ve already asked, but just let me do this right, alright?”

Aziraphale could only nod. His eyes were already watering and if he tried to speak, he knew it would be nothing more than unintelligible sobs.

“I wish I could’ve taken you back to where we started, but you and I both know the Archbishop would have us arrested for trespassing and that would kind of ruin the romantic atmosphere I’m going for.”

Aziraphale gave a weak giggle, still trying to hold back the tears.

“I love you. For a long time, I didn’t think I could love anyone. Or that anyone could love me. But then you came into my life and derailed everything I’d ever thought about myself, about priests, and even about God. You saved me. You saved me from a life of misery and pain. And I can never repay you for that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little velvet box. “But, I was hoping that maybe you’d spend the rest of your life with me while I try? Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will!” He threw himself at Crowley, with them both ending up kneeling on the gravel. It wasn’t comfortable, but neither noticed as they both cried and laughed and kissed. They’d drawn a crowd, but they didn’t care.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The ring was a simple gold band. It wasn’t overly flashy or expensive, but it was engraved with wings on either side of a small diamond, and on the inside, was inscribed ‘To my guardian angel, my saviour and my love’. It took a week until Aziraphale could even look at it without wanting to cry. But they were tears of joy.

* * *

They argued about the wedding. Because it would’ve been odd if they hadn’t.

They didn’t argue about the size, or the venue, or the guest list, or the décor. They argued about who would do the honours of officiating.

“We’re inviting half the bloody clergy of the entire bloody United Kingdom,” Crowley grumbled.

“That’s an exaggeration and you know it,” Aziraphale retorted. It was an exaggeration, but it wasn’t wrong to say that the majority of their guests were either nuns or priests. Even Anathema was registered as a civil celebrant, for reasons unknown. Something to do with witches and pagan rites. He didn’t ask for details.

“I think it should be John. He was the one who asked me to tutor you.”

“He’s retired. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to have someone younger? What about Raphael?”

The jealousy made no sense. He knew it made no sense, since he was the one marrying Crowley, not Raphael, but old habits die hard.

“What about him?” He huffed. 

“If it wasn’t for him annoying me, I might never’ve told you how I felt.”

“I think you’re giving him too much credit.” It wasn’t kind. He knew he was acting like a petulant child, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Alright, alright,” Crowley held his hands up in surrender. “I know the perfect solution…” He paused dramatically, “How about Gabriel?”

They collapsed into helpless giggles.

They eventually agreed on Jacob, since he’d become a good friend to them both since they’d left the Church. He was impartial enough not to favour either groom. Which meant a lot, considering 90% of the guests were guests of Aziraphale. Looking over the congregation, it was a sea of cassocks and habits. Everyone from the still studying Adam, Brian and Wensleydale, all the way to the retired John were there, showing their support and, more importantly, pissing off Gabriel. Aziraphale had half expected him to turn up and object, but thankfully, he stayed away.

There were two faces in the crowd, sat front and centre, who were there exclusively for Crowley. His sisters, Belinda and Lily, had contacted Crowley out of the blue one day. Crowley had been apprehensive about letting any of his family back into his life, but they had been nothing but supportive of him – even if his engagement had come as a bit of a shock.

Aziraphale was glad Crowley had some family there, even if it didn’t include his brothers and parents. It was a step in the right direction. But if they ever said one thing to hurt him, Aziraphale wouldn’t hesitate to kick them back out of their lives for good. He was willing to give them a second chance and forgive and forget. But that didn’t mean they had to be doormats.

The wedding itself was small, but it suited them just fine. They didn’t care about huge bouquets or orchestras playing as they walked down the aisle. Aziraphale was a little bit picky about the small details here and there, but he wasn’t a groom–zilla. He just wanted what little they did have to be perfect.

Crowley supplied the flowers, of course. He picked lotus flowers, something that baffled Aziraphale until he found them in a Buddhist text at work. Dotted around the church were lotuses of blue, white, pink and red.

Aziraphale selected the passages and hymns to be included in the seminary. Crowley just laughed when Aziraphale asked if he wanted to help him choose.

“I’m a failed priest. I think it’s best that you do the religious side of things, otherwise I’m just as likely to choose a verse that has some symbolism I’d missed in my three classes.”

They decided, after a lot of debate, to write their own vows, in addition to the standard ones. They decided, for the best chance at Aziraphale getting through them without breaking down into tears, he should go first.

“Crowley, my dear,” He began, looking into Crowley’s eyes, “You came into my life at a time when I didn’t think I needed anything. I thought I was happy. I thought I was on the path God had set for me. I thought I was right and acted self-righteously. But it turns out, I wasn’t right. You made me see there was more to life than just existing and doing what you think you’re supposed to. It took almost getting hit by lightning to make me see it, but when I did, all I could see was you. I couldn’t imagine my life without you now. I can’t imagine who I’d be without you. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if we’d been even a little bit competent as priests.”

At that, a laugh rippled through the church.

The old Aziraphale would never have admitted weakness. But he knew now, it wasn’t really a weakness.

“I love you and I will never regret wanting to spend every moment with you. You are everything I never knew I needed, but you’re all I’ll ever want for the rest of my life.”

Aziraphale was proud at having made it through his speech without tears. The same could not be said for Crowley, who had tears streaming down his face.

“Damn it! I said I wasn’t gonna cry,” Crowley whispered, hastily turning away from the crowd and wiping his eyes.

“It’s OK,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“Alright,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “When I met you, I was lost. I was angry and I was hurting. I didn’t know what love – or even kindness – felt like. I fell in love with you, without meaning to and without even realizing. You got under my skin, when I didn’t want to let anybody close. As soon as I met you, I knew you were something special, whether I liked it or not. I think I loved you from the first second, though I tried to hide it, tried to fight it. But it seems inevitable, you and me, angel. I think this was meant to be, as sappy and cliché as it sounds. Maybe, just maybe, God’s plan wasn’t so bad after all.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile, even as he silently sobbed.

“I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me. Though, I think it’s a bit too late to back out now,” Crowley gestured to the church and all the people watching them expectantly. “I think you’re stuck with me.”

Another giggle spread through the church.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They exchanged vows and Aziraphale presented Crowley with his ring. It was a silver band, just as simple as Aziraphale’s, with an engraved vine, snaking around the entire surface of the band. It appeared almost like an ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail. But off it grew leaves and twigs. It symbolised, according to Crowley, ‘the inevitability of fate and that they were always meant to be, but also the growth they had chosen, as people and as a couple’. Crowley had always been the more dramatic and philosophical of the two.

Before they knew it, they were married, officially in the eyes of both God and the government. They shared a chaste kiss in front of the cheering crowd and looking around the beaming faces, Aziraphale had never felt more loved.

He may not know who his parents really are. He might not have been the perfect priest he was raised to be. But he had a husband and an adopted family that he wouldn’t trade for the world.

‘ _Thank you. Thank you_. _Thank you_.’

As they toasted to their future, their love and their happiness, he felt like all was right.

“To us, angel,” Crowley whispered in his ear.

“To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I hope you enjoyed my not-so-little story ❤
> 
> This has been the longest thing I've ever written. And one of the few things I've finished. I've enjoyed going on this journey with Aziraphale and Crowley and all the other characters that shoved their way into the story, whether I'd planned for them or not. 
> 
> And of course, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this, whether you read it chapter by chapter or as one long binge session years in the future or anything in between, thank you. Every comment is a motivator and I truly and honestly appreciate them so much. Even a single word or emoji can make a difference. Thank you. 
> 
> And a quick little plug, for anyone craving GO art, I highly recommend Andrea C White's art. She can be found [here](https://www.redbubble.com/people/andycwhite/shop?ref=artist_title_name).


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